


Trust in me

by oooknuk



Series: Trust [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 20:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10749636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: Already questioning his future after 'Call of the Wild', Fraser returns to Chicago, only to place Ray's life in great danger through a miscalculation.





	Trust in me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters you recognise will belong to Alliance. No infringement of copyright intended. Not for profit. 
> 
> Note: This story takes place after 'Call of the Wild'. 
> 
> Warnings: Violence, language. No sex, darn it. No m/m at all. Just thinking about it. 
> 
> This story is pre-slash, actually (but gen if you really insist). I've updated and revised it. The boys don't get their act together until the sequel, "Going it alone"

The room is smelly, old and painted in a sickening yellow which makes the smell and the heat ten times worse than it should be. I unstick myself for the hundredth time from the plastic chair I'm sitting on, and answer my partner's latest bit of useless information.

"Fraser, no way is putting hot water in your body when it's 100 degrees out gonna make you cool. It's stoopid."

"Actually Ray, tea has remarkable vasodilatory properties, and it is well documented that in hot climates..."

Fraser keeps going, but I'm not really listening - just chipping in a skeptical comment or two to keep the lecture going. All that matters was just the sound of Fraser's voice, rolling on and on. I can't really explain it, and I'd never tell him, but I got so used to his voice in the background that sometimes when it isn't there, I find it kind of hard to concentrate. Weird. At the same time, I wish Fraser would shut up about tea and hot things  - the air in the small room is really stuffy and old, even with the window open, and my T-shirt is wet with sweat. Even Fraser, the ice prince, is damp, although because of the heat wave, and being off consulate duty, he's not wearing his uniform, just jeans and a light shirt.

I keep my eyes on the building opposite we're staking out, but in my head I'm back in the Northwest Territories. I remember - no, I can actually feel the ice, snow, bone chilling, thought sapping cold. I grin to myself - I must be unhinged if I can look back on that and like it. Me and Fraser were up there for two months - we told everyone we were looking for the hand of Franklin, but really we were just goofing off. I was cold the whole time, like to the marrow, never thought I'd get used to it, but you know, seeing it all with Fraser, I was beginning to fall in love with the place. But that was before I heard my dad died - heart attack, bam, two weeks before I called home from some little town up in the back of beyond. Of course I had to get home ASAP. Mum was pretty shaken up, and mad because I wasn't there for the funeral. Fraser was great, there every time I needed him, and we got through it, helped my Mum sort out Dad's affairs, helped her deal with it. I thought he was gonna get a transfer after the Muldoon case, but he hasn't said anything about it - just slipped back into his old job, the old routine. That was two months ago, and now, in the heat, it's like nothing's changed.

 

* * *

I ramble on as usual, Ray just listening with a quarter of one ear - I swear he's using me like wallpaper. I don't really mind - he's become a lot easier to be with since we left on our 'adventure' as he liked to call it. He's quieter, more relaxed. Less inclined to bark first and punch later. The fact he's only half-heartedly dropping comments into my admittedly academic exposition of the value of tea - something which would have driven him right round the bend just a few months before - tells me that either he's a much calmer individual, or he's become a much greater addict to obscure facts than I suspected. Still, I give up finally - I'm boring myself, and the stakeout doesn't need help in that direction. I wish I could have brought Diefenbaker, but he is hiding in the cool of my neighbour's air-conditioning back at my apartment building. The room is unbearably hot in the July temperatures, but we have already decided the stakeout will probably be concluded within the next day if no results are obtained. Ray becomes aware that I have stopped babbling, and looks up.

"I'm going to get some fresh air - do you mind?" I ask, and he shakes his head, and resumes his watch out the window.

"What's the time?" he asks. I tell him, "Four o'clock. I'll be ten minutes," and close the door.

I go down the hall to the stairs and head up to the roof. The view is panoramic, but not particularly interesting, and I can't help but think of what the vista in the Territories would be now - green, lush, warm but not sticky like this. Trouble is, when I was up there, to my surprise I found myself missing the bustle of Chicago. I wonder how much I would have enjoyed being back up North without Ray, especially since Dad now really has gone. I can't answer that, and I have already decided until I do, I won't be making any big decisions about my future. I check my watch, and realise it's time to go back, but as I head back to the roof entrance, I see a man has joined me up here. He has his back to me, but he hears my step and turns. To my horror, he has what looks like a crude bomb strapped to his chest - two bundles of dynamite, wired together and to what must be a detonator hung on his belt. He wasn't aware of my presence before and he is clearly taken aback, for he suddenly points a gun at me and cocks it. I stop dead in my tracks, and put a warm, reassuring smile on my face.

"Who the hell are you? Put your hands on your head!" he growls.

I obey and keep smiling, but decide perhaps now is not a good time to announce my status as RCMP. "I'm Ben."

"What're you doin' here?"

Not the time to tell him the full story, I think, although I have noticed it does have a certain soporific effect on susceptible individuals - of which he does not appear to be one.

"It's hot - I just came up for some air."

He seems content with the answer, and my grin, which I keep at full stretch. We stand and look at each other for a minute or so - he's not really thinking about me as such, I can see, but he also hasn't taken his eye off me the whole time. I wonder if he's bent on suicide or homicide - I've been trained to deal with either, although this situation is a little different from what the manuals cover. I recall the case of William Porter, but that was somewhat unusual, and in that case, I had considerably more background information than I do here - which is none.

I risk a question. "Can I ask what your name is?"

"Wilson." No elaboration.

"Well, Mr Wilson, may I also ask what your intentions are?"

This suddenly agitates him -  I may have gone too far. He starts to pace, but doesn't take his eyes, or the gun, off me. Then he speaks. "You want to know what I'm gonna do?" I nod slowly, still grinning. "I'm gonna blow myself up. "

"And why would you want to do that?" I ask soothingly.

"Cos of that damn slut, and her fuckin' boyfriend," he spits. So, it's the eternal triangle. But at least he's talking. I hope that eventually Ray will notice my absence, and come up to the roof, but I have had some success with would-be suicides, so perhaps I can persuade him to abandon his plan.

"How will blowing yourself up help the situation?"

"It won't, you moron, I'll just feel better."

Ah. That is at least rational, if somewhat extreme. I can't help but think that if simple suicide were all he wanted to achieve, he wouldn't have gone to elaborate lengths to wire a bomb to his chest. In fact I suspect that he is not really bent on suicide at all, but is asking for help. I keep talking to him but move slowly, almost imperceptibly, forcing him to move to keep facing me, until his back is to the roof door. I hope this way Ray, if he comes, will be able to take him.

 

* * *

I'm daydreaming of snow and pine trees and Fraser on the dogsled when I wake up to the sound of a fire engine siren directly below the window. I look at my watch. He's has been gone over twenty minutes. What the hell does he think he's doing? Stakeouts are two man jobs, he knows that. I  better go find him. I might miss the girlfriend of the drug dealer we're trying to nail, but I'm pretty sure she isn't coming home - the whole exercise is a waste of time and manpower. I give the view from the window a last sweep just to see Fraser hasn't wandered onto the street, and leave the room. The hall is empty, and so is the fire escape. That means the roof, two floors above. Damn you, Fraser, making me move around in this heat. The roof door is unlocked and only pulled to, but as I put my hand on it to open it, I hear Fraser's voice and as I realise what he is saying, my guts turn to water.

"Mr Wilson, you know you don't want to hurt me. I don't believe you want to hurt yourself..."

Suicide, or hostage situation? I draw my gun, and try to open the door as quietly as I can, but it clicks. The guy is right there and I feel a hard metal object placed to the side of my head. A gun. I've got a gun to my head. What the hell have I walked into? I am pulled through the door by a strong hand, and then the guy takes my gun and shoves me towards Fraser, who's standing with his back to the wall, hands on his head. He gives me this big stupid grin, which I think is meant to reassure me. He's not wearing his hat, I remember, and somehow that bothers me more than anything else. I turn to face the perp. It gets worse and worse - he' s got a gun on us, all right, but strapped to his chest is a bomb. If I'm still dreaming,  I wish I could wake up real quick.

I can hardly believe it when Fraser starts making polite introductions, like this is a consulate ball or something. "Ray, this is Mr Wilson. Mr Wilson, my friend Ray." No mentioning I'm a cop then. I look at the bomber, who has a queer kind of smile on his face, and then at Fraser, who gives me a quick warning look, and mouths 'smile.' So smiling is good, the bomber likes that, so I flash a big one at the man. Fraser continues his introduction to me, in a calm, matter of fact voice, like he's talking to a class of ten year olds.

"Ray, Mr Wilson has told me that he is presently unhappy with his lot and that he feels everything would be improved if he were to blow himself to kingdom come. I was pointing out as you arrived, that it is not my belief that he really wants to hurt anyone else, or even himself. If he wanted to injure anyone else, he would not have bothered to come up onto the roof where he could be alone. It is my belief that he wants people to pay attention to his concerns."

As he talks, I see Fraser is starting to move slowly towards the other man. I want to scream at him to stop. The man is a lunatic and _will_ blow us to hell without a second thought. But Fraser's calm, mellow voice is kind of hypnotic, the bomber still has that little smile on his face, and for a second, I can almost believe that Fraser's plan might work. Then I see the guy's face change, and I know it's not working. I tense my legs, ready to move.

He warns Fraser, "Stay back or I will shoot you."

"No, you don't want to hurt me," says Fraser in a calm reasonable voice, which has no effect.  The guy is saying "You think?" as he pulls the trigger, but I'm already flying, yelling Fraser's name. I knock us both over, but I know I'm hit. Then there's this huge flash, and a giant hand picks me up and slams me against the brick wall. I'm already passing out before I hit the floor.

 

* * *

The force of the explosion throws me against the wall, and knocks me silly. I can't breathe or move for several long seconds, and I'm stunned, but not knocked out. I get my wind back and open my eyes. Ray is slumped against the wall, unconscious, blood pouring from his abdomen. I crawl over to him, screaming his name, but he can't hear me. I can't hear myself very well - the explosion must have damaged my ears. I can't see too well either, there's blood on my face, but there's a hole in his side, and I clamp my hand over it. I look around in desperation - bloody gobbets of flesh lie about, and there is something too horrible to look at a few yards away - Wilson, or what's left of him.  I realise I have badly misjudged the situation, and Ray is hurt  - possibly dying - because of me. I scream for help, over and over. When the police and firemen arrive, they have to pull me away from his body by force. I won't be calmed, and finally they must restrain me before they can take me to the hospital. The ambulance ride is a series of far too loud, and confusing noises - sound seems to be travelling through metal pipes - and much too bright lights, but all I can see is Ray, bleeding and unconscious. Slowly it occurs to me that I am also injured, there is pain in my arm and back which drags me back to the here and now. I am asked questions which make no sense to me, I keep being told to relax. I cannot seem to make anyone understand that I cannot relax until I see Ray.

They must have given me something, because when I next wake, I am in a dark room. A hospital room, going by the beeps and whirrs I can hear. This time, I feel more coherent, more alert, and unfortunately more aware of injuries I must have sustained in the explosion. I fumble around, find a bed lamp, and switch it on. I can then locate the buzzer to summon a nurse. When he arrives, I beg him to tell me how Ray was doing. The nurse promises to find the person dealing with the case, and he returns with a doctor. She gives me a bright smile. "How are you feeling, Mr Fraser?"

I bite my tongue to stop a sharp comment coming out - I know I must stay calm or they will sedate me again. I force myself to be polite. "I'm fine. I'm worried about my friend, my partner. Detective Ray Kowalski - is he all right?"

The doctor looks at me, trying to judge how much I can handle, and decides to risk the truth. "He's unconscious at the moment, and in intensive care. He was in surgery for two hours - he was a real concern for a while. No, don't get upset. He lost a lot of blood and his heart stopped - they had to give him heart massage, but he came through that. He's got some serious injuries though - the bullet hit his liver, and a lung, and the explosion dislocated a wrist and a knee. There was also a spinal injury - not a break, but there is some swelling around the spinal cord. We're still somewhat concerned about that. But he's a fit and strong man, we would expect him to recover well."

Her last reassuring words do nothing to erase the anxiety about all that had gone before it, and the monitor next to me registers my rising tide of fear. "Can I see him?"

She shakes her head. "Not tonight. We'll move him out of intensive care in a day or two, all being well, and you might be allowed to see him then - if you keep calm. You should try and go to sleep now. You've got some bad bruising on your back, and you've broken your wrist. You could do with a good night's sleep after what's happened today, so I'm keeping you in for observation. I promise I'll tell you if there is any news. Cheer up - you can go home tomorrow."

I force a smile on my face. "Thank you kindly."

The nurse takes some routine readings, then turns the light out. There is no question that I can return to sleep, even with the pain killers. All I can hear is the doctor saying "His heart stopped" - my own had nearly done so when I heard those words. While I was been asleep, Ray had nearly died - what if he had - what if he did? The thought of a world without him was unthinkable, unbearable. I lie on the bed, sleepless, thinking, praying - hoping.

Around dawn I finally doze off, but am woken a couple of hours later by a nurse, and the arrival of an unwanted breakfast. It is collected, uneaten, as a new doctor returns. She scolds me for not eating, but after she examines me, and records her readings, she tells me I can be released. Once the words are out of her mouth, I can no longer contain himself. "Detective Kowalski? His condition?" She doesn't know, and goes to enquire. She is gone far too long, so I haul myself out of bed and am looking for my clothes before she returns. That earns me a prim look but she reports that Ray has spent a comfortable night, and is improved. He is going to be moved that morning from intensive care to a close monitoring unit, and might - might - she re-emphasises - be able to have visitors later. I am determined to remain at the hospital until he can do so, however long it takes.

Dressing is difficult, thanks to my broken wrist, and I am still struggling with my shirt buttons when I get a visitor - Lieutenant Welsh.

"Constable, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, sir. I'm worried about Ray." I do not miss the shadow that crosses the big man's face, and my anxiety wells up again.  "Have you heard ... I mean, have they told you the latest...?"

Welsh shakes his head.

"All I know is that he is stable, and they're moving him today. He's not out of the woods, but they think he doesn't need ICU at the moment." So, he only knows what the doctor told me.  I know I cannot rest until I see Ray.

"Constable, I hear you're being released. Do you feel up to talking about yesterday?"

I nod, and once the formalities of forms, and prescriptions, have been sorted out, I follow him to a private lounge where we can wait and talk. He tells me the new Liaison officer at the Consulate has been told of my injury, and that he sends good wishes. I can't help but regret the loss of Meg Thatcher, even to a much more exciting posting - she would have come in person, and would have understood my worry about Ray.

"What do you remember?" Welsh asks.

I have spent a little time putting my thoughts in order on that score, and am ready for the question. "We were at the stakeout, and I went up to the roof for some air. There was a man on the roof. Wilson, he said his name was. He was carrying a gun, and he had strapped a bomb to himself. Ray came to look for me and was taken hostage as I was. While I was attempting to talk Wilson down, he fired his weapon at me and Ray took the bullet. Then Wilson must have set off the bomb."

I want him to understand. "It was my fault, Lieutenant. I thought he was just an ordinary suicide. I was convinced he didn't want to hurt anyone else, maybe not even himself. I miscalculated and pushed him into an attack."

By the time I stop speaking, I can no longer look at Welsh, and he makes no comment for a time. Then he speaks. "Constable? Ben?" The unexpected use of my first name make me look at him, and his rugged face is full of compassion. I see no trace of the censure which I assuredly deserve. He gets up and gets a paper cup of water and hands to me. My hands are shaking, but I drink the liquid, which helps. He waits until I am composed.

"Ben, Wilson was insane. We went to his house last night. He'd killed his wife's lover, and tied her up in a chair near the body, so she had to look at the corpse until we got there. He told her he was going to blow himself up so she would have to identify the bloody mess. He didn't care who he hurt or what he did to achieve his end. This was way out of left field, you couldn't possibly be expected to know that. And even if you did, you know as well as I do, suicides are unpredictable. You just do your best but we still lose about half. You and Ray were just damn unlucky, and I want you to remember that. Do you hear what I'm saying? You ain't gonna help him, or yourself, if you blame yourself for this. Wilson did it - he rigged the bomb, he pulled the trigger. He was a murderer. Get it?"

He forces me to face him by the strength of his will, and makes sure I have registered all he has said. He is waiting for a response. "Understood,"  I say finally. He searches my face, and appears satisfied.

"OK. Now your boss tells me you've got lots of sick time due, so you take a week off, more if you need it. I know you're worried about Kowalski, and so am I. They're gonna let us see him today but after that, you go home, and you rest. I don't want you back here before tomorrow, and if I hear you ain't heading home each night, I'll put an officer on the door and make you. Now you remember what it was like when you were in the hospital, and what Ray Vecchio went through. Kowalski is gonna need you when he gets out, so you save your strength. OK?"

The big man's kindness is almost unbearable. I manage a nod. "Right. Here's the doctor now." She tells us that Ray has been moved, and is still unconscious, but stable. We will be allowed to see him, one at a time, for a couple of minutes only and once she has got our agreement that this is sufficient, she leads us to Ray's room. We are asked to wait, and finally a small, grey haired woman emerges. Ray's mother. She looks appalling, and I know she has not slept. My heart goes out to her, but she ignores our greeting and is led away by a nurse, in tears. Welsh looks at me and indicates that he will go to speak to her. The doctor tells me I can go in, and again repeats the instruction to stay only a minute or two. I go in with a nurse, and she leads me to Ray's bedside.

The sight makes me ill - he is surrounded by machines, and has tubes, wires and patches coming out of him and all over him. His breathing is being assisted, and between the monitors, bandages and ventilation, I can hardly see him at all. He is shrunken, sheet-white, the only colour the purpling bruises on his face and around his eyes. He looks as if he has already died, although the monitors beep reassuringly. I know he cannot hear me, but I call his name anyway. Of course there is no response. I stare at the hideous sight, lost, until I feel a tug at my arm, and the nurse takes hold of my sleeve and drags me gently out of the room. I stand outside like a stunned animal, and Welsh has to call my name several times before I recall what he is doing there. I force myself to speak to him. "His mother? Did you talk to her?"

Welsh sighs heavily. "She's very upset, Fraser. I think you and her better keep out of each other's way for a while." I cannot blame her, although it is clear she blames me, or perhaps just all policemen for the harm to her son.

Welsh goes into the room, but is out almost immediately, the lack of expression on his face telling me more than words could of his reaction. "Let's get you home, Fraser." He's right, of course, I can do nothing here. He drives me to the building where I have been renting since my return to Chicago. He makes a few waspish comments about it being no better than my first apartment, the one which burned down, but I don't respond. He comes with me and ensures that I will look after myself, and insists that I call him every day. I am deeply moved, and grateful for his concern, but he is embarrassed by gratitude. He leaves, and I collect Diefenbaker from my neighbour, thanking her and bringing him back to my rooms. He resents being dragged away from the cool, but my selfish need of his company outweighs his comfort. There is little to do but wait, and worry.

I go to the hospital every day over the next week. Ray is asleep every time I am allowed to see him for the first three days, and as his mother is avoiding me, I must rely on the doctors and nurses for news of his progress. They are optimistic, although he is going to be in hospital for some weeks to come - they have yet to fully assess his spinal injury and must wait until he is fully conscious before doing so. On the fourth day of visiting, I am sitting in the waiting room when a nurse comes to fetch me. Ray is awake and asking where I am. The elation this news brings is nothing to the joy I feel when I enter the room and see him looking at me, with clear blue eyes, and a cheeky smile. The ventilator is gone, and I can see the colour has returned somewhat to his face, although he is still very pale, and very tired looking. We grin at each other.

 

* * *

I don't think I've ever seen anything so good as when Fraser walked in that door - he had the goofiest smile on his face, better than a ton of pain pills, which don't work too good, let me tell you. My face creases up in response and we just look at each other, too happy to speak. Of course, being Fraser, that doesn't last, and he's got to say something.

"How are you?" I give him a 'so so' signal with my good hand. It still hurts to talk, they only took the breathing tube out that morning, so I don't mind giving the old throat a rest. He's happy with that, and he gives me an all over look, trying to see how busted up I am, like he can tell that through the sheets and blankets. "Does it hurt?" and he waves a hand over the mess of leads and tubes coming out of my skinny body. I roll my eyes - of course it hurts, dummy. He gives me a 'sorry' look, but then I see he really is sorry. I know how he feels - that time when I picked him up after Warfield's goons did him over, I almost threw up at the sight of him, I was so upset.

I don't want him to fret so I make a joke, in my scratchy voice. "You weren't wearing your hat." He looks puzzled. "You know, the sacred Stetson. Should've worn your hat."

He gets it then, but he still looks sad. "You should have worn your vest." I roll my eyes again and wave my hand over my mouth, like I'm trying to cool it. He works it out. "Yes, it was too hot for it, I suppose." I point at him and lift an eyebrow - I can see his wrist has a cast on it, and he looks like shit. "I'm OK. Broken wrist, few bruises. That's all. I got off lightly."

That doesn't explain why he hasn't slept for days, but I don't need to be Einstein to know why not. If the situation was the other way, and it was him lying here, instead of me, I'd be just the same. We're happy not to talk for a bit, but I'm working up to asking him about the nutcase on the roof when my Mum comes back. She sees Fraser, and she puts on that face she gets when she's not happy with something. I wonder why she's mad at him. He looks uncomfortable as she comes over to the bed. He's polite, though.

"Mrs Kowalski, nice to see you. Are you well?"

She looks at him as if he's deranged.

"No, Constable, I'm not. I am worried sick about my son."

I protest, even though my voice is not much above a whisper. "Mum, don't. Fraser just wants to help."

She gives me that look, you know, the pursed lips, narrow eyes, the mum look.

"Stanley, you wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the police force. I have every right to be angry and anxious. "

Fraser intervenes. "Ray, it's all right. Your mother has a point. I'll go, leave you two to talk. "

I can't make him stay, and Mum glares at him until he leaves the room. I start in on her as soon as he's out of earshot.

"What you do that for, Mum? He's my best friend."

She calms down a little bit. "I'm sorry, Stanley. I can't help it if I blame him for putting you at risk."

"He didn't do anything to hurt me." I don't know where she got this idea from, but all this talking and getting upset is hurting my chest, and wearing me out, so I have to stop talking. She's all concern then, rubbing my hand, and stroking my face, and I'm too tired to fight with her. I just close my eyes and let her fuss. I'll sort it out with Fraser later.

 

* * *

Mrs Kowalski's anger doesn't surprise me, although I wish it hadn't erupted over Ray's head like that. I don't know what I can say to her that will mollify her, and think perhaps the best course of action is to avoid contact as much as I can. I ask the nurse discreetly what the pattern of her visits have been, and learning that she is usually gone by supper, I determine to restrict my visits to after that time. However, that means I will be left with unwelcome time on my hands, and as I am almost completely well, apart from residual stiffness and the discomfort of my wrist, I decide that I will try to return to work. I remember that I must call Lieutenant Welsh, and do so. I tell him, briefly about the encounter with Ray's mother, and he is, like me, unsurprised. He tells me to give it a few days, and she might calm down. I tell him I am returning to work. He doesn't comment, which is itself a comment, but I cannot honestly think what I will do with myself with Ray out of bounds during the day. I need activity.

I ring the consulate and my superior, Inspector Murphy, advises that I may return if I want, so long as it is not against medical advice, which it is not, so I take a taxi to the consulate. I am not in uniform, but I can at least look though my post and see what has been left undone.

Inspector Murphy asks me to come in to his office, and I do so. He asks me to sit, and expresses a few platitudes about being pleased to see me back. I do try, but I really can't warm to him - perhaps I miss Meg too much? I am dismissed quickly - we have little to say to each other.

I concentrate as best I can on my paperwork. 5.30 rolls around, and I wonder if I should try to visit Ray before I go home. I ring the hospital and am told he is asleep, so I decide to leave it for the evening, and walk back to my apartment. It occurs to me that I owe my sister a letter - Ray and I were supposed to cross her path during our trip but because of the death of Ray's father, we never made it. I know she and Ray had become very friendly, and she will be distressed by his injury. I try and frame a letter which indicates the gravity and hopefulness of the situation, and to infuse as little of my own concern as possible. Writing to her makes me feel more lonely than ever.

 

* * *

The next day is a formal return to work. I am in my red serge, and thus highly conspicuous as I go through the hospital to Ray's room. For some reason, the looks I attract irritate me, and I secretly resolve to change in future before leaving the consulate. It's strange, the uniform used to feel like a second skin, and an armour against the strange alien Chicago environment but since Ray and I came back from the Territories, I've felt more and more that the uniform is a barrier to people getting close to me, and I'm getting sick of barriers.

Ray is awake, but very tired looking, and reproaches me for coming so late. I apologise. He looks so much worse than he had the previous day, and he must see my anxiety in my face, for he tries to reassure me. "Don't sweat it Fraser. The doc says I got to expect to be worse before I get better, the more I move around, the more it'll hurt." I agree, and I share with him some of my experience after the Victoria affair. I warn him not to be impatient, but in truth I don't know whether the two situations are truly comparable. He doesn't know yet how bad his spinal injury is, and he is far more badly hurt than I was. I don't stay long - he is tired, and already has been given the medication he needs to help him sleep. I wait for him to doze off, and leave.

That is the pattern over the next week or so. There is no word about his spinal problem, but he is being assessed daily. He has been in hospital for a fortnight, when I arrive as usual, to find he is far more awake than normal, and in some distress. He has been waiting for me, and anxious to talk.

"Fraser, they say I can't walk. I can't use my legs," he tells me anxiously.

I tell him to calm down, and take his hand, stroking the back of it with my thumb, soothing him like a child with touch and words. Gradually, he settles and I ask him to tell me exactly what he has been told. It turns out that it is not thought to be a permanent situation, and he has suffered similar nerve damage to what I had done, although it is more severe, and will take longer to eradicate. He will need at least a month of in-patient physical therapy, and a further two months at home. He has been told that he should be able to walk in a fashion in a month, and has a strong probability of recovering full use of his legs. But he is too frightened by the thought of being permanently disabled to think clearly. I tell him over and over, he will walk properly, he can do it, I did it and so will he. It is all too much for him, and the two weeks already in the hated environment of the hospital, with the prospect of many more to come, has distressed him. I think that he will be able to deal with it better given time, so I just sit and hold his hand, trying to will him to sleep. Eventually he wears himself out - he has alarming little stamina and this, I fear, will be the main impediment to his recovery. Once he is quite asleep, I search out his doctor. She is initially reluctant to discuss his condition, but when I explain my own previous experience, she softens. She confirms that the paralysis is temporary, and that even now he has movement and sensation which means he will not be permanently crippled. I ask her about his lack of energy.

"Mr Fraser, he has suffered massive injuries. The body has to expend a great deal of energy regenerating tissue, and healing. It means there is much less for him to use just being awake. You shouldn't be concerned - it's normal. He's actually doing very well, all things considering."

As I walk home, I worry about Ray's mental state - he isn't a patient man, and dislikes immobility more than anyone else I've ever met. I feel so helpless but there is nothing I can do, except just be there when I can, although even that small assistance is limited by work, and the fear of upsetting his mother again. For the first time in a long while, I wonder what it must have been like for Ray Vecchio all those years ago. I understand better than I ever have why he needed to be there day and night, why he felt so guilty.  He had been so patient, kind, giving, and I had treated him like dirt until I came to my senses and realised that I needed his friendship more than I needed to hang onto my pain. But this Ray has behaved like a saint compared to me - never a word of reproach about having put him in hospital, grateful for my short visits, always concerned about my well-being. I wallow in self-loathing, knowing it is indulgent, but at least I am not hurting anyone else, for the moment.

 

* * *

Fraser comes back the next night, and I tell myself I have to behave this time. I really lost it last night, crying like a kid. The doc came and talked to me today, making things a bit clearer for me - Fraser had a word with her last night, and she knows I was upset. This time, I get the message that I will probably walk completely normally, and it will just take a lot of work. I'm not afraid of that. Fraser looks pleased that I'm not carrying on like I was before.

"Hey buddy, good to see you."

"Hello, Ray, are you feeling any better today?"

"Meaning, am I gonna freak out on you again? Nah, I'm good. Doc came and talked to me. I got it all straight now."

"That's good Ray. You will walk, I promise you that. It'll just take time and energy."

"Yeah, well, I got time, and I'm gonna make the energy, just you watch me."

He's relieved. I can see he's tired. He always looks tired when he visits, and I wish he'd take something to help him sleep, but this is Mr I-won't-even-take-an-aspirin we're talking about, so I've got more sense than to suggest he take sleeping pills. He still wants to get things clear about my treatment. I tell him I start physical therapy next week, and he tells me how he found it and the sort of things I'll be doing. It really helps that he's been through the same thing. This is what my mum don't get - Fraser's a cop, he's been shot, and stabbed, and beaten up, and he still comes back for more. Mum thinks I'm freakin' insane to want to stay on the force after this - she just doesn't understand. Neither did Stella, come to think of it. I can talk to Fraser and not pull any punches about what hurts, and what I want to do, and I don't get any guilt trip from him about it.

I want to keep talking, but I'm yawning already. Sheesh, its a pain in the neck the way I can't stay awake. Before, I'm like, still good to go at midnight, every night, and now, seven o'clock and bang, I'm out for the count. Fraser understands - it's not like I haven't fallen asleep on him before. But as he goes, I want to tell him how much he's helped - I grab his hand and squeeze it. "Thanks, Fraser." He gives me a funny look, like he's embarrassed, but squeezes back. Then he leaves.

 

* * *

Ray thanked me this evening, which nearly undid me. For the life of me, I can't imagine myself being so forgiving if our roles were reversed. He has a capacity for generosity which never ceases to amaze me, and which I have come to rely on almost to the point where it frightens me. The worry that I might one day be deprived of this warm soul's presence by some other random act of violence is enough to keep me awake most nights.

He begins his physical therapy, and is thus much more tired in the evenings than before. I now always ring before I leave work, and it is nothing unusual to be told he is asleep, and that visiting would not be a good idea. We don't talk much when I do come, although I learn that he is progressing satisfactorily. He is, as I predicted, impatient at the rate at which control and tone are returning to his legs, and needs as much reassurance as I can muster that he is doing well, and that he will walk. Sometimes he doesn't want to talk at all - I suggested chess once, but he doesn't have the mental energy. He likes poker, and we play for air, and once for cheese straws. I bring him books, he has an insatiable appetite for information about Canada and the natural world, which I am happy to try and satisfy. Still, all of this is a poor substitute for a real, out of hospital life, and he chafes all the time at the restrictions of his body. I can only offer him what comfort my company offers.

I haven't seen his mother since the first few days, and he guessed a long while back I have been timing my visits to avoid her. It isn't something we discuss, but I sense he doesn't want to risk alienating either of us. I am frustrated that the two most important people in his life cannot cooperate in the vital matter of his recovery, but I don't know what I can do, without her active will. So we get through the long weeks, as best we can.

 

* * *

After six weeks in hospital, Ray is being released today. I have arranged to meet him and his mother at the hospital to help him get home and settled. Mrs Kowalski is cool but politely accepts my presence, which Ray has insisted upon. Although he is now able to walk short distances with the aid of a cane, the hospital make him use a wheelchair for the journey outside. I help my friend into his mother's car, and hold the door open for her while she gets into the driver's seat. Ray is ecstatic to be leaving after so long a confinement, and doesn't, fortunately, notice his mother's hostility to me. Once we arrive at his apartment building, the sole justification for her tolerance of me becomes clear - Ray can't get up the stairs without assistance, and she is much too small to help him. I grab him around the waist, he puts his arm around my shoulders, and we slowly get up the three flights. It would have been easier to put him over my shoulder in a fireman's lift but he is too sore and scarred to endure that. Hs mother lets us into his apartment, which is preternaturally clean and tidy - her doing no doubt.

I help him into the bedroom, and ease him onto the bed, where he lies as if poleaxed. The short journey has exhausted him, and he is in pain. His mother comes in and sets about removing shoes, administering pills, sorting pillows and so forth, making it clear I am one person too many in the room. I would just leave them to it, but don't wish to appear rude, so I retire to Ray's kitchen and make a pot of tea, and prepare a tray with two cups. I doubt she will drink anything I have made, but I must be polite for Ray's sake, and for hers - I know she loves him, and I can't dislike someone who loves my friend. I am just settling on to the sofa when she emerges from his room and shuts the door.

"Is he asleep?" She nods, and to my surprise, pours herself a cup of tea. I see now how tired she looks, and worn, and reproach myself for my hostile thoughts about her. She sips her tea in silence, not looking at me, and I know she wants me to leave. I stand up. "I think I should be going, Mrs Kowalski, unless you need further assistance?" knowing she does not, not from me in any event.

But she puts her cup down and says, "No, please stay a while. I want to talk to you." I am confused, but sit down again, and look at her expectantly. She still doesn't meet my eyes, but starts to speak.

"You're probably wondering why I have been so unkind to you." I don't reply but she takes that as assent and continues. "I know you will feel I am being unfair, but I really can't help but think that Stanley wouldn't be lying in there, so helpless, if you hadn't got him into that mess. He told me what happened up on the roof that day. Why did you provoke that man?"

I have no answer for her - I know that it was my misjudgement. "I don't know - I didn't think he would really shoot."

She glares at me then. "Stanley knew, though, didn't he? That's why he took a bullet for you - he saw the man was ready to kill you." I have to agree, and she purses her lips in anger. "This isn't the first time you've got him into danger, is it? He told me about your throwing him off that plane on the ice field, and the time you nearly drowned him on the ship, and when you made him drive all over town in a burning car. He thinks you're some sort of superhero, but to me, you're just a reckless man who is going to get my son killed one of these days. I have no intention of losing him as well as his father. He couldn't even be at the funeral because of you - do you know how much that hurt?"

She is being unreasonable over this, but her earlier points about my endangering Ray are fair comment, so I can't protest. She continues, and every word tears strips from my soul. "He won't tell you, but he is worrying about you - him, lying there, hardly able to walk, and he's worrying about you not looking after yourself, worrying about you being upset. Now I am here to tell you that this is got to stop - he needs all his energy to get well, and if he's got any spare, then I want him to give it to me. The police force took him away from me and my husband for eight years, and I want to have him with me for a while before I have to give him back to them. And you are a distraction he doesn't need and I don't want, so I want you to promise that you will stay away until he is well."

This is more than I can agree to. "Mrs Kowalski, I know you're upset, and you are right that I carry no small burden of responsibility for Ray's injuries, but he's my best friend. He'll be offended if I don't come and visit."

She won't accept this. "Constable, you can make him believe that you have a good reason to stay away, and if you don't, you will force him to choose between me and you. Do you want that?"

I shake my head, knowing I can't hurt my friend that way. Perhaps she is right - once Ray is well again, we will work together again. This is a small sacrifice compared to what both of them have been through.

"Will you give me your word?"

I nod. "Yes, but on one condition - if you, or he, need my assistance, you must promise me that you'll ask me for it."

She gives me a cold look. "I doubt it will come to that, but I promise." My heart is sick at the thought of leaving Ray to spend the long weeks of recovery on his own, but he needs his mother more than he needs me - I can't be there everyday, all day, and she will restore him to health. I only hope that with time, she will soften her heart, but I can honestly see no real prospect of this. I stand again, ready to leave but we hear Ray's voice calling for his mother. She shoots me a warning look, and goes in to attend to him. I pick up my hat, turning it over and over in my hands, wondering if I should just slip out, but she returns. "I told him you were just leaving, he wants to say goodbye." She watches me distrustfully, but I have no intention of betraying my word.

Ray is still lying prone, but gives me a faint smile as I enter the room. "Hey, Fraser, you taking off?"

I nod. "How are you feeling now, Ray?"

"Sore as hell, buddy. I got pains in muscles I don't even think I own." My hearts tightens - I cannot stand seeing him in discomfort. Perhaps his mother is right, my overemotional response to his injuries is doing him no good. I force a smile on my face, and tell him, "I may be busy for a while. The new staff at the consulate will need a lot of training. I may not be able to come over."

He doesn't question this, and I can tell by the way his eyes have closed and his mouth is tightening up that he is fighting a spasm. I wait until he seems to be through it. "Is there anything I can do for you, before I go?"

He grits his teeth, the spasm is returning. "No, Fraser, you've done more than enough already." His eyes are still closed, so he doesn't see how his words have stung me. I said that very thing to Ray Vecchio after he shot me - and I had meant to hurt him by saying it. Had Ray Kowalski done the same? I cannot tell from his expression, which is still one of a man dealing with severe suffering, so I leave without speaking further. His mother lets me out without a word, but her look tells me that she will hold me to my promise.

 

* * *

Keeping my word to Ray's mother is honestly the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, and were it not for the fact that I am certain his life is no longer in danger, I think I would have been incapable of sustaining it for more than a week. I know she is doing him no good by her request, and that he will be hurt and offended by my absence, and this, more than my real worry over his physical well-being, frets at my conscience.

It doesn't help that while Ray is off work, there is nothing much I can do in the way of 'liaising'. Murphy seems only interested in keeping the paper work up to date, and although I have long been spared guard duty, I begin to wonder if it would not be preferable to filling out yet another pointless report or form in triplicate for some bureaucrat back home to promptly lose. Ray would no doubt describe my present situation as 'spinning my wheels.' All I know is that for the first time as an adult, I wonder what on earth I am doing with my life, and whether there is any point being a Mountie who is not likely to be allowed to return to active police work in Canada. I even begin to entertain ideas of leaving the force, and am glad in a way my father has left me, so he cannot discern these treacherous thoughts and chide me for them. I dare not even confide them to Maggie.

After a fortnight, I decide that I would not be breaking my word to Ray's mother if I were to call and ask how he is. I carefully ring at a time when I know she will be there, as I do not want to be accused of going behind her back. She answers and is most displeased by my call. "Constable, I asked you to leave us in peace."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but what you actually asked me to do was to not visit Ray while he was recuperating, not to promise to have no contact at all."

"Well, I'm asking you now to promise that."

She's pushed my stubborn button, and I won't agree. "I'm truly sorry, Mrs Kowalski, but I can't do that. I can't see that a call or two to you to determine that Ray is doing well is going to compromise his recovery or your relationship with him."

She is silent, and for a moment I fear she may put the phone down, so I quickly ask, "Please, could you tell me, how is he?"

She still doesn't respond, and I wonder how I can get her to answer, but then she capitulates. "He's doing very well. He's having a pretty intensive program of therapy, so he's tired. He doesn't need, or want visitors. Satisfied?"

I'm not, but it appears I've been given all I'm going to get. "Thank you. I know you won't be happy about it, but I shall call again - in a fortnight. All I will want to know is how he is. Nothing more."

"Goodbye, Constable."

I can't tell from this whether she agreed to my ringing again, but I'm feeling mulish, and will do so regardless of permission. I think of Mrs Vecchio's behaviour the first time - and I am ashamed to think that it was only the first of several times - that her son was in hospital on account of me. She was upset and blamed me for his injuries, but at no time did she forbid me to contact him. I try to make excuses for Mrs Kowalski - she is after all recently bereaved -  but I'm angry regardless. Then I'm guilty at being angry. I think, on the whole, calling has made things worse for me, not better.  If only I could see Ray for myself.

 

* * *

A month passes. I have rung twice more, and am told Ray is still doing well, and may be back at work within another month. Maggie has written twice to me, and says she has written to Ray, for which I am glad - I feel that I still have some connection with him, even if by the circuitous route via my half-sister in the Territories. I haven't told her that I haven't actually seen Ray, and wonder if he has told her of my strange avoidance of him.

I 'm sitting in my office, trying to make sense of my fellow officer's notes regarding an upcoming consulate social function, when a call is put through to me. I pick it up and hear a familiar voice.

"Fraser? Is that you?"

"Ray! How are you!" I am so overjoyed to hear from him, that I forget momentarily that the immediate response to my question could be, 'you'd know how I am if you ever came over'. He doesn't take that line though.

"I'm good, buddy. Legs getting stronger all the time - be dancing again in no time."

"I'm delighted to hear that, Ray. I told you you'd recover."

"Yeah, you did. Listen, how about you come over tonight? I think there some sort of heavy curling thing going on, and I thought you might like to watch, you know, give me some tips an' that?"

He can hardly be serious - Turnbull and my attempts to educate Ray about our fine national sport were a dismal failure. But the fact he would even contemplate such a thing tells me how much he wants me to come over, and I am going to have to hurt him. "Ray, I'm sorry - I've, I've..."

I can't lie, can't even think of what I would say if I could, especially when I don't believe it is right to even try. But he gets the message. "It's OK, Fraser, I guess you're busy." He sounds so sad, I am a second away from damning my promise to hell and agreeing to visit, but he forestalls me.

"Hey, got to go, I think someone waiting to see me. Bye, Fraser," and hangs up. I stare at the phone and wonder if Ray will ever forgive me, and if he would ever forgive his mother if he knew what she had done to both of us.

I miss him more than I have anyone in my entire life.

 

* * *

Fraser made it pretty clear he didn't want to come over. I know he said when I first got back that he wouldn't be over for a while, but it's been six weeks - this is a guy I was used to talking to every single day, work or no work. I thought we were friends - hell, I know we were friends, no doubt about that after Canada. I can't understand what the problem is - he was OK when I first spoke to him, but he was freaked out about coming here. It can't be seeing me sick or anything - I was much worse in the hospital, and he was completely cool about that, even when I thought I wasn't gonna walk again. I don't know whether to be mad or worried. I wish I was up to driving, I'd go right over to the consulate and make him talk. But I'm not up to that yet, or walking too far, although I'm getting better every day, every hour.

Even Mom isn't here so much - sure, every day, but now only for a couple of hours, to make lunch and leave something for dinner. To tell the truth, I'm glad of the privacy. To begin with, she was over here 24 hours a day, which was OK while I needed it, but you know, you get to be my age, been married, a guy don't want his mom there all the time. Especially when she don't want to hear about my job, or Fraser, or anything but family and my Dad. I was getting pretty suffocated, and when my brother came down to visit, I had a word with him. He's gonna take her back to his place when I go back to work - she needs the break, and I need the space. But I didn't figure on being Fraser-less. Well, I'm not going to keep at him - he doesn't want to visit, he doesn't want to work with me, that's fine. We had Canada, and even if we're not friends no more, that doesn't change the time we had together.

But I really miss him.

 

* * *

It is nearly three months after the bomb suicide, and the weather is beginning the long slide into Winter. Murphy call me into his office, and we discuss some minor administrative details. I think we are done, but he takes me by surprise with his next words. "Constable, I've been asked to offer you this transfer to Ottawa," handing me a post description.

I'm too surprised to respond immediately. The transfer offer can't be because I have been annoying anyone particularly recently, it has been a remarkably quiet few months and I thought after the Muldoon affair I might be in much better odour with the RCMP than I had been. I express polite surprise at the offer, and ask, as delicately as I can manage, whether it is in the nature of a reward or a punishment.

"I think a reward, Constable, although one is never sure these days. I suspect it may lead to promotion, if you can keep your nose clean."

I really can't digest the information. "May I have some time to think about it, sir?"

"Of course, Constable, take all the time you need. But you should consider your options carefully. This posting at the consulate is not guaranteed - budget cuts may mean the job here will disappear at any time. Is there anything you want to ask me? Then, dismissed."

I return to my office, to read the job description of the post I have been offered. It does look attractive from the career prospects, but it's an administrative position. No police work. I know how frustrated Meg used to get - she was a fine police officer at heart, and although she also was a fair manager, she really yearned to do more. There's also the more problematic issue of just what I want to do with the rest of my life, something I have resolutely avoided dealing with since we caught the man who killed my mother. It's something I really want to discuss with Ray, but I can't do that. He has not called again, and I can't pretend to his mother that I'm any longer concerned about his physical well-being - it's clear he's recovering very well. To be honest, I don't know that I should lay a burden like this on him, even if all was well between us - if I have lost my edge, am prone to endangering his life, then I should cease to work with him. He needs a partner he can trust, and I don't trust myself particularly at the moment. How can I ask him to do so? I decide to leave the matter for consideration for a week. Atypical procrastination for me, but I simply cannot decide what to do.

 

* * *

Finally, after three months I'm being allowed to go back to work. Still got to use a cane sometimes. I never ever thought I would be so glad to see the 27th again. Welsh is grinning like a loon, doesn't care who knows how happy he is to see me. A few familiar faces, all smiles, not as many as there used to be - a lot of people have left since Fraser and me went to Canada. I got to stick to desk work, but that don't bother me - anything's better than sitting at home watching Oprah.

The novelty is starting to wear off by day three. I'm itching, not just be out catching bad guys, but just to be doing, and doing with Fraser. No one's heard a word from him, and I promised myself I wasn't going break, I'm damned if I'll call him, but hoping he'll call me. I keep looking up, hoping to see a flash of red, or hear that smooth baritone of his boring the pants off someone - but nothing. I'm beginning to get depressed by it, by the fact my legs still won't behave like they should - I wonder if they ever will. Glad my mum's away so I don't have control my mood, act nice, when I go home.

Friday, and I've got my head buried in some old case reports Welsh wants me to look over, when I hear a familiar voice call my name. I look up and see Jack Huey standing there, grinning at me.

"Hey Jack, how you doing?"  I haven't seen him in months.

He shakes my hand.  "I'm great, man. How's the legs?" I wonder how he knows about that.

"Ray, I still hang with the guys here - I know everything that goes on." I bet he does - he's no fool. I ask what's he doing here, and it turns out he's running some checks on two new bar workers. He asks me about Canada - he heard about my Dad, and says he's sorry about that.

"Where's Fraser?" he asks, like anyone would.

"Oh, he's around," I lie.

He sees my face, and knows I'm lying.

"You guys not talking again?"

"Dunno, Jack, I'm talking to him, if I ever see him." He doesn't know what to make of that. I'm not really up to talking about Fraser, and we chew the fat for a while about the precinct, and the club he and Dewey set up. I think he sees I don't want to keep this up for ever. He stands and shakes my hand again, and leaves. I wonder what it's like to up and go, leave the force behind, and I think, maybe I'd like to try that for a bit. I'm getting moody again, so take myself off to talk to Mort.

I give the morgue a quick once over, just to see there aren't any dead guys out on show, which there aren't. Mort's making a sandwich, and offers me half. I refuse, politely - no way am I gonna eat a pastrami sandwich which has been lying where some corpse just got cut up. "So, Ray, how have you done this week?" like he's my grandfather and I'm back from school.

"OK, I guess."

He looks at me over the top of his glasses. "I don't think so, do you? Have you spoken to Fraser yet?"

I shake my head, and he tuts. "Ray, Ray, my friend, you must call. Life is too short for such nonsense."

"Don't know what to say Mort - I haven't seen him in two months, he didn't call, won't come over. Maybe he thought I had the clap, not a spine injury." It's not very funny, and he doesn't laugh. He just keeps looking at me, until I give in. "OK, all right. I'll call Monday, if I haven't heard from him by then. I just need to chill over the weekend. I'm tired."

He put his hand on my shoulder. "You need Fraser, he needs you. David and Jonathan, you two are. Never forget that." He's right, I know. I just wonder if Fraser knows it.

 

* * *

I'm in my office, ostensibly filling out my end of week report, but in reality staring into space, when there was a knock at the door, and then a familiar face appeared around it. "Jack," I say with pleasure - ex-Detective Jack Huey, once Ray's colleague at the 27th and now minor business man and club owner. He looks well, as he always dressed with considerable style, but now he looks happy too. I realise with a rush of nostalgia how much I have missed the man. I stand and shake his hand, and sit him down.

"You look good, Fraser."

"And you too, Jack. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The other man sat back in his chair and waved a hand expansively. "Just getting a little cultural advice - Tom and I were thinking of a theme week at the Club - Canada night," to which comment I respond with a grin. "Thought I could find out about contacts for art pieces, Inuit carvings, a couple of polar bears, you know the drill."

"And did you get all you were after?"

"Well, they said no to the Mounties - hey, are you busy in the evening...?"

I shake my head and laugh. Jack isn't serious. I am suddenly grateful for his presence. "I'm so glad to see you again, my friend. "

"Feelings mutual, Fraser, feelings mutual. So, " he relaxes more into the chair, "you been down to the old place lately?"

I hope I don't look as guilty as I feel, and shake my head. "I've been very busy with consulate business, and with Ray off on disability for so long, there wasn't much excuse to go down there." I hope this doesn't qualify as an actual lie. "You?"

"Yeah, now you mention it, I was down there today. Had to run a check on a couple of new employees. Saw Ray. You heard he's back on light duties?"

This is complete news to me, but he takes silence as assent.

"So when you guys gonna get it on together again - you know, the old Batman and Robin thing?"

I have no answer to this. "I don't know."

Huey looks at me strangely.

"Fraser, Ray doesn't look so hot, did you know that?"

"Well, Jack, he had been through a very difficult time, with the injuries and his father..."

"And where do you fit into that?"

I am surprised by the question and Jack's serious tone. I am not sure I like where this was heading. "I don't know."

"Can I be honest here, Fraser?" I nod, so he continues. "Ray looks kind of lost, like he's lost the spark. I mean, he was always the mover, wasn't he, never could sit still, keep his mouth shut - even when someone wanted to punch him out?" I know all too well - it is Ray's most endearing and irritating characteristic.

"Now he'd like a ghost - polite, but he's not really there. I know what it's like, that feeling. You remember when Louis died?" I grimace - I could hardly have forgotten. Surprising really, that Jack can bear to bring it up, especially to me.

"Louis and me, we were partners. We were friends - not that close, but good enough. It's comfortable, makes the job easier. When he died, I couldn't face trying to find that ease again with someone else for a long time. I used to watch you and Ray Vecchio together, and think, man, that's great, it's so special what you have. Ten times better than me and Louis. Then old Ray goes and the new guy comes in and now its like, one hundred times better than me and Louis - and it's just a random event. You just got lucky with him - they could've picked anyone to replace Ray Vecchio, but they pick Kowalski and suddenly, he's your best friend, and its better than ever. So I thought, I'll give it a try, and I got Tom. Now Tom, he was always a better friend than partner, but it's real good, and now I don't feel lost any more."

"I always thought you and Tom made a good team."

Huey shakes his head ruefully. "Not like you and Kowalski, man, not like that - either one of you, on your own, you're good cops. But together, it's just the sweetest thing there is, when you can be friends and work together that well. I'm telling you straight, Fraser, Ray looks like he's had a leg cut off and he's trying to find it."

"I'm not sure he's looking for me. And even if he is, I'm not sure how long I'll be here, in Chicago."

"Well, you better sort out whether you're staying or going, working with him or not, because it's killing him. And he's too good a man to lose." I am trying to make sense of all that he has said. Surely he exaggerates - Ray has shown he manages perfectly well without me, and after all, the experiences of the last three months would depress anyone. Still I am grateful for Huey's concern about Ray, and say so.

The other man just looks at me. "I'm not just worried about him, Fraser. You look like you might have lost a leg as well." He stands up, and put his hand out. "I've got to go. You look after yourself, man."

I grasp the outstretched hand warmly. "You too, Jack. Give my regards to Tom." I show him out, and return to my office. Jack's visit has thrown me into turmoil. I have hurt Ray by staying away - no, that was wrong, I hurt Ray by provoking the madman who nearly killed him. That wasn't partnership. Jack's visit has done one thing - I now realise I can no longer delay the decision about the transfer. I go to Murphy's office, give him my decision. Now it's done.

I try to put barren regrets out of my mind, and by a great effort of will, manage to finish the report, and clear up some other paperwork. In fact I become so immersed, that when at last I look at the clock, it has gone eight, and Diefenbaker is nosing around for his supper. I feed my wolf, and think I should probably buy a meal before I go home although I can't honestly rouse interest in eating or preparing a meal. I think perhaps a long walk with Dief might renew my appetite, and do him good anyway, so I change out of the uniform and into a comfortable pair of jeans and shirt. I lock up the consulate and leave with Dief.

I'm not paying a lot of attention to my direction, just walking familiar streets and letting Diefenbaker lead the way. I'm lost in thought, when I hear Dief's yip. I stop and find to my astonishment that muscle memory has brought me to Ray's building. I eye my wolf suspiciously, but get only an innocent lupine smile in reply. I look up at Ray's window and see the flickering blue light which indicates that Ray has his television on. I look at Dief again, and give in. After all, Ray's mother's prohibition is over, if Ray is back at work, and I will have to tell him about the transfer at some time. "All right. Now we're here, I suppose it would do no harm to drop in and say hello." Dief barks but I am not so sure his delight is justified, nor of my welcome. It would hardly do to admit to myself that I am afraid to call in on my - once - best friend.

 

* * *

I'm watching a documentary on the Discovery channel about the Yukon. I'm doing stuff like that more and more lately. I used to just watch the sports and news, but since I got back from Canada, I cant hardly stand sitting through a newscast, and even baseball isn't much fun any more - I guess its because it reminds me of being with Dad, rooting for our team. All this nature stuff is really because I miss Canada. And Canadians, if I'm honest. One Canadian in particular. I'm thinking about the one Canadian in particular when my speaker phone buzzes. I get up, all stiff-legged, to answer it.

"Ray? Its Fraser." Am I dreaming?

"Ray?" Fraser's voice sounds puzzled. "It's open," is all I can think of saying. I wait by the door, and open it at the first knock. And there he is. It doesn't feel like I'm dreaming, not with Dief drooling over my toes and making happy little whining noises. I see Fraser's face, with its polite smile, and don't know where to look. I hide my confusion by kneeling down to hug Dief and make a fuss of him, and when I look up, Fraser has come in and shut the door. I stand up.

"Hi, Fraser."

"Hello, Ray. I was in the neighbourhood, so I thought I would come up and see how you were getting on."

"In the neighbourhood, Fraser? I live thirty blocks from your apartment, how can you be just in the neighbourhood?"

"I think it was Diefenbaker's idea actually. I wasn't paying attention, and when we stopped, here we were."

I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that Fraser hadn't planned to visit, so I talk to the wolf instead.

"Hey Dief, you miss the pizzas? I think I got some... Sorry, Fraser," I say, guiltily.

"It's all right - he's been remarkably disciplined lately, so I don't think it'll do him any harm."

I remember my manners.

"So, have a seat. You want some tea or something?"

"Tea would be nice, thank you, if you don't mind." So formal. Once Fraser would have just made the tea, and got me a beer, without asking. It's like we're strangers.

I make the tea without talking and bring it over to the sofa where he'd been sitting. Fraser is sitting on one of the arm chairs, head twisted to watch the scenery of his home on the screen, just looking _hungry,_ you know? I'm starting to know why Fraser looks like that every time he sees snow - or even a stuffed polar bear. He tears his eyes away from the screen, like he really doesn't want to, and takes the tea.

"I'm sorry, Ray, for being rude - its just ..."

"It's OK, Fraser - I kind of miss it too."

"You do?" Fraser looks amazed, and I have to laugh.

"Yeah - reminds me of how I nearly lost all my toes to frostbite that time." Fraser looks guilty, and I remember that maybe it wasn't all that funny, at the time. I change the subject. "So, Fraser, how have you been keeping?"

"I'm well, Ray. More to the point, how are you?"

"I'm back at work, " and seeing Fraser's nod, wonder how he's heard, "and the physical therapy is done. I just got to do some exercises every day on my legs, keep them strong, get them doing what I want to do when I want them to. I might be back on regular duties in a couple of weeks. "

"That's great news, I'm really pleased."

I watch Fraser's face as he sips his tea. Something's bugging him. There's nothing unusual in him walking over to my apartment, at least, it didn't used to be, but to have done it apparently without meaning to, is strange, for him.  I wish Fraser would hurry up and tell me what's eating him - I'm getting tired, the week has been a long one - but I'm really glad to see him, and I ain't gonna drive him out. The credits roll on the documentary and it seems to switch something off in Fraser. He swigs the last of his tea, puts the cup down, and stands up.

"Well, I think I should be going. It's late, and you appear fatigued. "

I nod, but all the while I'm thinking, what the hell, Fraser - is that it, after two months? It seems it is.

"Dief?" The wolf whines, but gets off the sofa where he's curled next to me. Fraser isn't looking at me, but at Dief, but I can see his eyes are dark and wide open, like he's hurting.

"Fraser?" I ask. Just tell me, Benton-buddy. What's wrong with you?

"I'll be seeing you, Ray, goodnight".

That's rude, for Fraser, and I grab his arm as I haul myself up off the sofa. He sees the trouble I'm having, and gives me a little extra pull until I'm upright. Now I can see his face clearly, and the pain on it just about breaks my heart to see it. To other people, maybe, Fraser probably just looks polite, getting ready to leave, but I spent two years working beside him, and two months trusting him, listening to him, watching him, in the Canadian wilderness. I used to say I was expert in the mating habits of the Stella, but I am now totally fluent in Fraser, and his being sad is as clear to me as if he had shouted it out. What can I say, or do? While I'm thinking, Fraser goes to leave. He walks so quickly to the door, he almost forces me to run to catch him.

"Fraser," I plead. Fraser is already out the door. "Fraser, don't go!" He turns to me then, surprised. I hang on the door, damn traitor legs suddenly weak.

"Please. Stay here." He's waiting for me to explain, to tell him why I want him to stay.

I seize my chance. "Fraser, look, you're right, I am tired, and so are you. You don't want to walk all the way back tonight. Stay over. I want you to."

To my relief, Fraser nods, come back into the apartment and stands in front of me, with a smile that makes me sure this is the right thing to do. He sits back down. I come over and switch off the television. I have an idea. I ask him, "You busy tomorrow, over the weekend?"

Fraser shakes his head, looking at me.

"That's great, I mean, do you want..." I stop and make myself calm down. "There's a fishing shack my dad part-owned up on Lake Geneva - it's empty in Fall and Winter, and I can use it any time. What do you think about maybe coming up and spending the weekend up there - get out of the city for a couple of days?"

Fraser's look of surprise and pleasure is enough reward for me. "That would be great, Ray, thank you."

"Cool. OK, we get some sleep, tomorrow we get up early, pick up a pack for you at your place, and we'll head up. It'll be great." Fraser nods, and he looks pleased. I fetch him some bedding.

"You know where everything lives, so I'm gonna hit the sack. See you in the morning."

I go to bed, hoping that this weekend we can mend what's gone wrong with us. I know now that there's something going on with Fraser - and I'm gonna find out what.

 

* * *

I wake to the sound of Ray softly moving about. I open a eye and see he's already dressed, and speaking quietly to Dief as he puts some dog biscuits and water down for him. I get up and quickly strip the bedding off the sofa, and pull on my shoes. He sees me. "Hi, Fraser." He gives me a smile. I'm surprised at both his pleasure at my presence, all things considered, and then when I look at my watch, the time. "Ray, it's only 6.00 a.m."

"Got to get going, buddy. Time's awasting." He's had coffee, so I make some toast and eat it in the car. He's already packed his clothes, sleeping bags for us, and his cane. We arrive at my apartment where I put on fresh clothing, and make up a small pack of items for the weekend. He gets petrol, then we're off, and it's only 7.00, still dark. I'm not quite awake, but Ray is bright and alert. Sickening, really. I wonder how he's managing with the driving, and that gets me a wry look.

"I can drive better with two bum legs than you'll ever do." I concede this may be so, and in truth, he is driving very well, and very smoothly. I am surprised I'm dozing off - not something I would ever consider doing the way he normally drives. I feel I am being rude, falling asleep while he works, and rouse myself to ask about the place we are heading for. It sounds paradisical - hiking, water sports, camping. I think how much more tolerable Chicago would have been if I had had a hideaway like that, but then I would have to own a car, and the nuisance of that would outweigh the benefits. I notice he is very carefully not asking me about my prolonged absence, and I am more than happy to avoid the subject as long as possible, and to just enjoy his company. It's not like I will have many more opportunities.

I can see he's thinking about something, and I watch his eyes fall on objects around the car, and see him give the wheel a little pat. "You miss your father, Ray?"

He lets out a long breath. "Yeah, I do. It like I just got him back for a few months, we just started talking again, and then he's gone."

I nod. "I know how you feel. Wasted opportunities are a terrible thing."

"What about you, you still miss your Dad?" he asks.

"All the time, Ray. I miss both of them."

He nods sympathetically. I tell him about the real story of how I caught Dad's murderer, and how Ray Vecchio and I had charged off on a dog sled, seven men in snow mobiles in pursuit. Funny, I'd forgotten we have never really talked about this - he was very touchy about Ray Vecchio for a long time, and he'd seen my file, I just assumed he knew. He finds the whole thing vastly entertaining, and we swap yarns of derring-do for most of the trip.

He stops at a local store for supplies and then it's a short drive from there to the cabin. The building itself is dilapidated, but the setting is very beautiful. I can see the lake not far away down a path. Dief is already in heaven, and leaves us unload while he explores. The cabin has two bedrooms, and a minimum of furniture. Smells as if it hasn't been opened up for some time. We dump our packs, and I make coffee for us both while we discuss what we're going to do. I am surprised that Ray suggests a hike.

"What about your legs?"

"I got to build them up some how, if I'm ever gonna get back to proper duties."

That makes sense. We can use my pack to carry lunch, water, and I see he's wearing the proper hiking shoes he bought in Canada. I can make sure he doesn't overdo it, and if necessary I could carry him back, although I think if it comes to that, he won't be too happy.

It's still early, only ten o'clock and the day has dawned bright and clear. The air is scented with pine, and I cannot stop the feeling of exhilaration which comes over me at the prospect of a day in the open, away from the city smell and noise. Dief is excited and Ray is making better progress than I expected, only using the cane on inclines. I keep a watchful eye on him, and deliberately reduce my pace. I don't want to cover too much ground this morning, otherwise it will be a trial for him to get back. Still, by one o'clock we have gone a fair distance. I can see he's beginning to tire, and is glad to stop. We eat our sandwiches in companionable silence. He hasn't said much on the way, and although I feel I must explain things to him, and especially I must tell him about my transfer, the tranquillity between us is very special, and I think my news can wait. In many ways, it feels like we are back in Canada.

I pack up our lunch materials, and help him stand. He really is tired. "Can you make it back?"

"Sure, Fraser, I just need to take it a bit slower." I feel guilty. He's been trying to match my pace, not complaining that I was still going too fast. On the way back, I match him, slow when he does, and watching to see if he's in difficulty. He's using the cane all the time now, and really is leaning on it. It reminds me of the first two weeks or so we were up north. Everything was hard for Ray, he was constantly exhausted, but he wouldn't give up. I can see the same tenacity in his eyes now, and although it would undoubtedly help if I took his arm, I know he would be grievously offended that I thought he couldn't do it.

The trip back is much longer than the one going, and we don't get back to the cabin until sunset. I am very angry with myself - a walk that length would try anyone, let alone someone who's effectively been an invalid for three months. I apologise to him for my carelessness, but to my surprise, he's perfectly happy. "I'm fine, Fraser. It's the first time in three months I've been away from Chicago, and the first real walking I've done in that time. It's great, I feel good."

I doubt he'll feel so good in the morning. I insist on him sitting and resting while I make dinner, and while I do so, he dozes a bit, sitting on the arm chair, Dief asleep at his feet. I rouse him to eat, and he's not as sleepy as I thought, because he chats animatedly through the meal. He wants to talk about Canada, and we reminisce about our trip. I'm constantly surprised how he looks back on some of the most dangerous, most trying things as enjoyable, and I wonder if he had been suffering from more hypothermia than I thought, or whether he is just an adrenaline addict. The latter, I guess. I clear up, and he takes a shower. I still haven't told him about my transfer.

 

* * *

Ray comes out of the bathroom still putting on the clean T-shirt in which he plans to sleep, and I can clearly see the long angry red scar down the middle of his chest,  where it was torn open so that his heart could be squeezed and massaged back into life. The sight revolts me, for it reminds me how close I came to losing him, and I have to swallow hard to stop the bile rising. I remember in time that Ray might be offended by my reaction, and struggle to regain control of my expression. I see, however, that Ray has turned from me and is sitting on the floor. He calls my name again. "Fraser? You OK?"

"Of course, Ray," I lie.

"Good. Listen, I have to do my leg exercises now, and I have to do them here, there's no space in the bedroom. You mind?"

"Not at all. I had to do similar work after my back injury." But my conscience pricks me as I watch him stretch out, with difficulty, on the rug in front of the fire place, and he begins the silent routine of lift, hold, bend, drop, five times for each leg before alternating. It is hardly just to compare our two respective injuries - mine resulted from a totally unforgivable act of lust and stupidity on my part, and his was caused by trying to help and protect his friend - me. I hide my thoughts, though, and watch him go through his paces. His face is one of total concentration - the exercises are hard, as I know from bitter experience, and sometimes painful, although he appears to be coping well. But then his control breaks, and he winces and inhales hard as he drops his left leg from a straight hold, and I cannot bear to watch any longer. I turn from him and go outside, closing the door behind me, and stand on the porch. I know he will find my actions rude, or at least puzzling, but I don't trust my voice enough to excuse myself. I gulp in the chilly, fresh air into my empty lungs. I try to regain control, and slowly I do so. I stay outside though, concentrating on the clear, moonless sky which is full of stars.

 

* * *

I come out of the bathroom, all tangled up in my T-shirt, and when I get my head clear, I catch Fraser giving me a funny look, almost as if he's gonna be sick. Then he slips that Mountie mask on, and tells me he's fine, when I ask him. OK, if you say so, Benton-buddy. I lie down to do the exercises. To tell you the truth, I'm pretty tired with the hike and all that, and would skip them if I could, but I can hear the therapist telling not to miss out a night if I can, and the couple of times I did, well, the old legs made me pay the next day. So I stretch out, wishing I'd brought an exercise mat with me, and start. Sometimes I think it gets harder to do this as I get better, but I know it's just tiredness. Hurts too, when I'm tired, and I have to concentrate on what I'm doing so that I don't jar myself or move too quick. I lift my left leg, straight, and hold for five seconds, but just then a muscle spasm starts up and I have to drop it. That hurt, and I suck in a breath with my eyes closed, trying to relax. I open them again, and see Fraser's back heading out the door, without a word. He's upset about something, I can tell, but I can't stop now. I finish the rest of the routine as quickly as I can, but without skipping anything. Finally, the last leg lift, and I'm done. I grab a flannel shirt to put over my T-shirt, and pull on my heavy socks and jam them into unlaced boots. I put on my coat, and go outside to where Fraser is staring into space on the porch

 

* * *

I hear the door open and close, but don't turn to face it. Ray comes beside and leans on the porch rail as I am doing, cupping his long fingered hands together as he often does when he is in contemplative mood. I cannot see his face, just shadows and shapes. He doesn't look at me, and for a minute or two we just stand there together staring out at the natural wonder of the velvet sky. The peace can't last and he asks, in a calm voice, "You want to tell me what's bugging you, Fraser?"

Too direct, and I don't know where to start, so I lie again. "Nothing, Ray." I hear him sigh and he turns so he is leaning backwards on the rail.

"OK, let's try that again. I say, 'What's bugging you, Fraser' and you, Fraser, will say to me, 'Ray, I have a bug up my ass about'..." and he waves a hand to encourage me to fill in the sentence. I can't answer, I fear I will lose control over myself completely if I come out and say what is in my mind. He senses I won't open up under such an attack, and good cop that he is, changes his interrogation to specific questions.

"You mind me doing those exercises in front of you?"

"Of course not. I told you, I've done them myself."

"So why did you look like you were gonna puke when I came out of the bath room?" I can't tell him that the sight of his scars make me ill, but my silence seems to confirm something for him, although what, I'm not sure. He changes tack.

"You didn't call. I'm sitting in my apartment for two months, bored out of my skull, and my best buddy doesn't call. That hurts, Fraser."

I know it did, I hear it in his voice, which is still level despite his obvious emotion, but my urge to protest my innocence at least of this charge collides with my sense of chivalry towards his mother. If I tell him I did call, several times, then he will know his mother lied to him. I can't do that to him, or to her. "I'm sorry, Ray" is all I can manage. He snorts with disgust, and I can't blame him. In his position, I'd have cut off all contact with a so-called friend who abandoned me like that, and yet in the generosity of his heart, he has taken me back, even brought me to this special place. I don't deserve him, I think, and my head hangs down.

He shocks me with his next comment. "It was Mom, wasn't it? She said something to you?" I lift my head and look at him, not sure if he knows, or he guessed, or he's just fishing. Again, my silence seems to answer him.

"Dammit, Fraser, tell me the truth, or I'll walk out of here." His voice is calm, but his intent is not, and I won't risk losing him over this. I take a few seconds to try and frame a reply which is least likely to hurt, but then I can see by his changed posture that he is becoming impatient with my continued silence, so I breathe in deeply and speak.

"Yes, she did speak to me, but I believe she thought it was the best thing for you. She told me how much you meant to her, how much she wanted to spend the time of your recovery with you. She didn't want to share that time with anyone." I don't say the rest, but he guesses there is more.

"And, that's it? For that, you stay away like I got the plague or somethin'? Come on, spill the rest. What else did she say?"

There is no gainsaying him. "She ... she told me that she thought I put you in harm's way, not just this time, but before. I had to agree with her. She holds me to blame for your injuries, and wanted me to keep away from you, for your own good." There, I've said it.

 

* * *

Fraser's words rip at me, and I can't answer straight away. I'm not surprised at my Mom thinking that way - jeez, she and me, we had a big fight about it, me trying to tell her I'm a cop, that's my job, and then she's putting the guilt trip on about Dad, and how I missed the funeral because I was off with Fraser, like I planned it or something. But what I don't get is Fraser just letting her put all this on him, and him just taking it, and for that I got to sweat for two lousy months, wondering what the hell I done to Fraser to piss him off so bad he don't come round no more. I'm so mad, now I can find the words to say, and I start to yell at him, like I haven't done for nearly a year.

"What is wrong with you, Fraser? What sort of friend do you call yourself? All the times I put myself on the line for you, all the times you done it for me, me trusting you, you trusting me, and you're telling me that you want to throw it all away because my _mother_ told you to keep away from me? Is that what you're telling me you did? Because, you know, Fraser, where I come from, that ain't right."

I shut up before I go any further, because I can tell he's hurt, like he was that time when I smacked him in the face before that _Henry Anderson_....... _Henry Allen_ thing. I can't see his eyes, too dark, but I'm wondering, if I could, whether they'd be wet. He makes a sound in his throat which makes me sure they are. I back off a little, and try and calm down.

"Couldn't you have just rung me? No way can you endanger my life in a wildly bizarre way over the phone, can you?"

That's gets a little choked up laugh, but it dies quick, and when he speaks, his voice is bleak. "I did call," he says, like it physically hurts to say it. Three words, and I get a picture of what the last two months have been like for him.  Pure hell.  I suddenly remember a few times when Mum took calls for me, just saying they were from my brother, or Francesca, saying hi. Now I know they were from Fraser - and he's been covering up for Mom.  He must've thought I was giving him the silent treatment. Something else he said rings a bell.

"What was that you said, about agreeing with her?" He doesn't look at me, in that very Fraser way of not looking at you, when he wants the floor to open up and make him disappear so he won't have to talk about whatever it is you're yammering about. I don't give him the chance to get out of it, just keep looking at him until he breaks.

"I was merely saying that she thinks I am the reason you were so badly injured, and that in my opinion she's quite correct." That totally formal way he talks sometimes really annoys me - like we haven't spent the best part of three years working together, closer than most marriages, and like I don't know everyone of his damn moods and what he's trying to say without he has to dress it up like a textbook or something. I start to lose my cool with him again.

"Correct in what sense, Fraser? Spell it out for me, because I'm having a little trouble understanding this. You think, somehow, you made me jump into that bullet? You think, maybe, somehow, you got some super dooper extraordinary powers that means you can stop dynamite exploding? Did you put that guy up there on the roof? Did you make him a crazy fuck in the first place? Just what did you do, Mountie? Come on, spit it out!"

I want him to get mad, to stop just taking all the shit the world dishes out to him, and I'm suddenly jabbing my finger in his chest, and shouting in his face, like he's some rotten scumbag suspect and I'm jumping Bogart all over him. Funny thing, he's just taking it again, he doesn't shout back like he did on the boat that time, and he's doesn't move away from my finger even though I'm poking him hard enough to hurt me, let alone him. He just looks at me, taking all the shouting and the finger, not saying anything, and the low light from the window picks up something shiny on his face. That just gets me where I live. I drop my hand and grab the rail. I ain't felt so bad since the day Ray Vecchio came out of deep cover, and I thought I'd lost Fraser for good. Maybe I have this time.

 

* * *

Ray stops shouting and drops his hand. My chest hurts from his jabbing finger, but it hurts worst inside at what I have done to him. He is so angry, and with so much justification. I allowed my own obsession with guilt and duty and honour to cloud the really important issue, which is him, and my friendship with him, and my affection for him, which is the most precious thing in the world for me. Indeed, he is right - I don't have the right to assume responsibility for the actions of a lunatic and then to punish Ray for that. I don't know the words to help him, or to ask forgiveness, but as always, my surprising friend finds the way out. He puts his hands over his face and rubs it. "I should have said something. I knew you'd think this, knew you blame yourself. Fraser, I never thought it was your fault, not even once," he says quietly.

"I thought..." It seems foolish now, but the words escape before I can stop them. He looks at me with his head cocked.

"What? What did you think, Fraser?"

"You said, that last time I was at your home that 'I'd done more than enough.'  I thought you held me responsible for what had happened to you."

He lets out a breath and I can hear him trying to control his voice, trying to stay calm as he speaks. "Fraser, I was trying to _thank_ you. I meant it, you really been a help. If I was annoyed with you, I'd have something like, 'Fraser, my friend, you are really ticking me off."

"Or words to that effect."

"Yeah, what you said."

I feel a stupid grin bubble up from the depths of my battered heart, and I can tell by the light gleaming on his teeth that he is also smiling. But I still have to make it clear that his generosity does not excuse me. "I did miscalculate, you know."

"Yeah, so what?"

"So, I almost got you killed."

"You mean, 'I almost got you killed _again,'_ dont'cha, Fraser?" His words evoke a fresh wave of guilt, and seeing my reaction, he regrets his joke. He puts his hand on my arm.

"Fraser, I trust you. Not, 'I trust you right up to when you screw up'. Just, I trust you. Period. You made a mistake, so what? I make mistakes all the time, and you saved my ass over and over. I know you ain't gonna endanger my life more than necessary, and when you do you always get me out of the hole. Always. And if you don't, you'll die trying. Am I right, or what?"

His faith is a burden and a balm to my soul. "I could've handled it better."

"Maybe, maybe not," he says reasonably, as if it is of no consequence. "The way I see it, we weren't gonna get off that roof without him blowing himself up. I don't know if he would've necessarily shot us, but he had the gun, he had used it. I think he was ready to kill before we showed."

"That is where I made the mistake - I thought he just wanted attention."

"That too. How many suicides you talked down before?"

"A few," I concede.

"Ever lost one before?"

"No."

"There you go." For Ray, it is simple, but I start to protest because I don't think it is. He puts a hand up to make me stop, and to reinforce the message, he puts it on my chest, over the point where his finger had poked me so hard. "Do not do this, Fraser. This'll kill you if you don't let this go. I'm not gonna lose my best friend over this. I will not let that happen. Do you hear me?"

I nod, and he pats my chest in approval, before removing his hand. I hear him exhale and then sense him shiver.

"Cold?" I ask.

"A bit. Let's go in."

 

* * *

I lead the way into the cabin, and I'm not just shaking with the cold. I hope like hell I just won a fight I _cannot_ afford to lose. Fraser's ability to take all the blame on himself is even bigger than mine - or what mine used to be. I lost a lot of that up north, learn to trust myself, and him, and to let it go when I blew it. Up there, there isn't the energy to spare on going over and over your mistakes. You learn and you get over it. But Fraser's lost his confidence since we left that last time, I don't know why. I got to get him back, get it back for him.

I got and sit next to Dief by the fire, and he noses into my hand. I let Fraser stay behind me, to wipe his eyes, straighten up before I look at him, but when I do, he's still a bit shaky. I remember what started all this and work out what was bothering him before. "It's the scar, isn't it?"

He nods, looking at the fire. "Yes. It reminds me I almost lost you."

"You see, that where we're different. I look at that thing, and I think, I'm alive. The sonofabitch didn't get me. It's telling me, you ain't gonna live forever, Kowalski, but you're here now. Its like those things you told me about, that they put on tombs and stuff." Damn, I can never remember those long words he uses. He looks puzzled. "You remember, the skull and bones," and then light dawns.

"Do you mean the _momento mori?_ "

"Yeah, the memo thing. " He gives me the strangest look, like he doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry. Then he drops his face and looks at Dief between us, and strokes his fur. There's something going on in his head. He doesn't say anything for the longest time, and he's off in that little world of his again. That used to bug me so much, the first couple of weeks up north, like he didn't even remember I was there, but then I worked out that a guy who's spent so much time alone is gonna be more used to thinking than talking. So I just wait till he's good and ready to speak. When he does, his voice is sad.

"Do you ever feel lost, Ray?" and that shocks me, because that's what I asked him, that night we camped out by the icefield before we caught Muldoon. I sure as hell know he's not talking about street directions.

"Not any more, Fraser." He looks at me, like it's the first time he's seeing me. I know why he's surprised. Right from when I first met the guy, he's had me crying on his shoulder, spilling my guts about Stella, Marcus Ellery - even when we were chasing Muldoon. But I don't need to do that any more and I tell him. "I found something up in Canada I've been looking for my whole life."

"What's that, Ray?"

"Me."  He gives me a long look and nods. He understands. "So what about you, Fraser? You the lost one now?"

"I guess I am. Since we got back, especially since you got hurt, I don't know what I'm doing here any more."

"You homesick?"

That would make sense, but he shakes his head. "No - I thought I was, but now it looks like I'm going back to Canada anyway, I don't..."

That, I can't let slip.  "What do you mean, you're going back? When?"

I sound shocked as hell, cos I am. He won't look at me as he answers.

"Soon. I'll be up in Ottawa within a month."

 

* * *

Ray looks at me with huge eyes, mouth open in shock, and I wish now I'd either been able to tell him earlier, or just had not accepted the transfer at all. I expected anger from him at my not telling him, but of all the emotions charging across his angular face, rage is the one I surely do not see. I watch him pull himself together for my sake, and know that this honest, transparent man is going to try and lie to me to make me feel better. "That's great, Fraser. I mean, you're gonna go home. No more Chicago, no more dirtbags..."

No more you, no more friendship, I add silently. When I don't respond, he looks puzzled.

"What's wrong, Fraser - you've been busting a gut to go home since I've known you, and you were really happy when we were up there."

"I know, I know. I'm lucky."

"So, what's the problem?"

I don't know how to answer that without sounding pathetic, so say nothing, which irritates him.

"You're hard work, you know that, Fraser? You spend way too much time alone."

His words cut right through to my soul - he has always been able to get to the heart of any dilemma so quickly, it's almost frightening. I hide my face on my knees like a child, hoping that he will think I am merely annoyed.

 

* * *

Fraser drops his head, hiding his face, and I suddenly realise what his problem is, what it's been almost since I met him. Funny, I thought I was the lonely one, but now I think about it, the man has one of the poorest social circles of anyone I've ever known. Sure, he knows lots of people, never knew anybody who could strike up a deep and meaningful conversation with a total stranger like him, but even with that ability, he only has one close friend - me.  Ray Vecchio's gone, he's got no family (except Maggie and she's thousands of miles away), no girlfriend. I mean, I still got my mom, and my brother, his wife, the nieces and nephews, and maybe Stella if she ever needs a shoulder to cry on, which is something at least. I want to help, want him to feel good about himself, but I'm cut up too - I don't want him to go, I know that, and I can see he doesn't either.  But Chicago is the wrong place for him - it's beginning to be the wrong place for me. I need to do some thinking, and to get some sleep - 'sides, my damn legs are cramping up sitting like this, and I know I'm gonna suffer tomorrow. Fraser looks whacked too - I know its not physical with him, but emotional, but he needs to sleep. I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to let him know it'll be all right. He doesn't say anything, just keeps staring at the fire. I squeeze his shoulder then, so he looks at me.

"Fraser, come on. We both need to get some sleep, we can talk tomorrow. I know we can sort this out."

He doesn't ask which 'this' I mean, but his eyes show that he puts his faith in me, that somehow me, Ray Kowalski, will show Supermountie how to put his life back together. It almost makes me laugh, makes me smile anyway, and I get a little smile back from him. I use his shoulder as a launch pad to help me get up, then I put my hand out and haul him up too. He looks at me then, blue eyes wide and dark, and wet, and I can't help it. I pull him in for a hug - funny, I never did this to him after that first day, when he didn't know who the hell I was and why I was running around calling myself Ray Vecchio. Didn't know then he wasn't a hugging kind of guy. He lets me hold him, and I can feel how tense he is - not me hugging him, but just everything getting on top of him. I pat his back like he's a kid. I hold him for a minute or two, and his breathing gets more slow, he's relaxing. I let him go, and he whispers, "I'm sorry, Ray."

"Don't be sorry, Fraser, you ain't done nothing wrong. Just go to bed, will you, you'll feel better for a good night's sleep." He gives me a damp grin. I watch him head off to his bedroom, and I promise myself that somehow, some way, I am gonna help him find the person he's lost, like he helped me.

I lie awake some, thinking of Canada, Fraser - Maggie. Think about what being a cop means to me. Think about my Dad, my Mom. Somewhere, sometime that night, I finally get an answer. Then I can sleep.

 

* * *

I wake up to light coming in through the window, so I've slept later than I meant to, and more soundly than I have in weeks. Ray was right, I do feel better. I can't hear any noises from out in the living room, so I guess he's still asleep. I should get up and feed Diefenbaker, but he's not protesting, so I just lie and think for a while. Ray's reaction to the news of my transfer was so different from what I had expected. In previous times, he would have exploded at me with anger, perhaps accusing me of dumping him as a partner, and probably letting it spiral from there into berating himself for his own inadequacy. But he has accepted my decision - I can tell he's sad, but he can let me go. Part of me resents that  he can do this so easily, but mostly I am struck by the truth of what he said last night - he has truly found himself. It's a slightly frightening idea - Ray Kowalski was a formidable presence even when plagued by self-doubt, a brave, resourceful, quick-witted and, above all, warm person. Now ... it is pleasant to think of what he might achieve. At least I need have no fear that I have permanently damaged him, or that my leaving will lessen his happiness. I really do have no reason for remaining in Chicago, other than the purely selfish one of wishing to remain near him. However, he will undoubtedly get a new partner, a proper Chicago cop this time, and he deserves the chance to form a bond with that person, without a redundant unofficial partner hanging around looking for scraps of friendship and activity.

I just wish I felt better about leaving.

 

* * *

I hear the toilet flush, and then clattering in the kitchen. Fraser's up. I go to get up myself and groan at how stiff my muscles are. I need a hot shower, and I need my cane to get there, which I haven't done for nearly two weeks. I come out into the living room, and Fraser's setting places at the table. His face falls when he sees the stick, and I remember how upset he was when he saw my chest scar. I still got to use the stick, though, so I clown it up for him, bend over a bit more like I'm a hundred years old.

It works, he gives me a grin, and I straighten up, and try and walk as normally as possible. I scoot into the shower, and the hot water does wonders for me, uncramping muscles, loosening everything up. By the time I'm dried and dressed, I don't need the stick, and I make a big thing out of twirling it, and waving it around as I come back in and sit down for breakfast.  This is one meal he can really cook  - I've eaten his pasta, and no offence, but you can just tell the man is a natural caribou eater, but breakfast is one thing he does good. Bacon, eggs, flapjacks, juice, coffee, the works. I'm starving, and chow down, and even he's tucking in like he hasn't eaten for a week. Finally, I push back from the table, and rub my stomach.

"Boy, I'm stuffed. Good thing I wasn't planning another hike. I don't think I can move."

He looks concerned. "Ray, are you OK? Your legs ...?"

I cut him off. "Nah, it's not that. I'm stiff, is all - I just overdid things yesterday. I just got to build up stamina. I'll be dog sledding with you before you know it." That's a private joke, he never did get me to work that sled properly, and we had a hell of a time the couple of tries I made, solo. But it was a lot of fun. He's still looking worried.

"Perhaps we should take it easy today - we could just talk, play chess, or poker if you like."

"Man, I am all over that, Fraser. Just sitting, hanging with you - just like old times." He gives me one of those 'you are unhinged, Kowalski' looks. Thing is, we hardly ever did just sit for sitting's sake - always chasing the bad guys, or running after this or that, or keeping a stakeout. Don't mean I couldn't get used to it. He gets up to fetch more coffee, and to let Dief out for a run. I sit sipping my coffee, looking at him. He looks better, must've slept OK. Still looks wistful, kind of sad. I hardly ever see Fraser like this - I don't think many people ever have. It makes impossible not to love him, not to care about him, and I wonder again how he's got himself to the point where he has so few people in his life. I want to talk to him about this, and about the decision I made last night, but first I got to get some things straight with him.

 

* * *

Ray looks so peaceful, relaxed, just sitting there drinking his coffee. Despite what he said, we never really have done this, even in Canada - we always had to keep moving, breaking camp, making camp - and I think how marvellous it would be to have the chance to do that a lot more - to spend more leisure time with him, rather than it forever being police work. Well, I've messed that up, and I'll have to live with my decision. He startles me somewhat when he speaks.

"Jack Huey dropped in to the station Friday."

I nod. "Yes, he came to the consulate that afternoon. He told me you were back at work."

"Oh." He's surprised. I don't know why I didn't mention this before. "What did he want?"

"He said he and Tom are planning a Canada theme night, or nights, I'm not sure how many. Wanted advice on some cultural aspects."

He lifts an eyebrow, and I explain. "He apparently wanted to hire a couple of Mounties. He even asked me if I wanted a job." That sends a mouthful of coffee flying. Ray finds this hysterically funny. His amusement is contagious, and I find I'm laughing hard too. It is pretty absurd, after all.

Finally he calms down, and takes the cloth I hand him to mop up the spill. He's still chortling as he wipes. "Hey, Fraser, I always thought you'd make a good door man."

"Better than running a bowling alley, I suppose. " I only intend it as a joke, but he catches the bitterness of my tone which surprises even me. He looks at me narrowly.

"Vecchio taking off like that, leaving the force, really got to you, didn't it."

My perceptive friend - I have no secrets any more. I sigh. "I suppose I was surprised. Ray was a very good cop, it was in his blood. I just hate to see a good man go to waste." I hear a female laugh in my subconscious and give an inwards grin to the memory of Jill Kennedy. How right she was about me. Ray wants to pursue this further.

"You weren't sore about Jack and Tom leaving, though."

"Well, they were never as close to me as Ray Vecchio, and I guess I hadn't formed so strong a conviction as to their destiny as police officers. I can't say I think that Tom Dewey in particular was born to be a cop - maybe Jack was, but he's taken to club management like a natural." I don't know why, but something about all of this is bothering Ray. He's rubbing his fingers through his wild hair - that much hasn't changed. If his legs weren't stiff, I think he'd be off that chair in a minute and pacing around.

"So, what you're saying Fraser is that you don't mind people not being cops any more if they're not your close pals, is that it?"

"Not at all, Ray. What I'm saying is that I think some people are best suited to a particular role in life, and others are not so well suited. I just happen to think that Ray Vecchio made an extremely good police officer, and I have reservations as to how happy running a bowling alley will make him."

He gives this some thought. "And what about you, Fraser, you gonna be a Mountie till you die?"

"Well, not until I die, I hope, but I don't suppose I'll ever do anything else." I don't think that came out as a ringing endorsement, which surprises me.

"Did you ever think of doing anything else?"

He's giving me a very intense look, and I realise this conversation is very important to him. I frown, trying to recall. "No, I can't say I did. I mean, all my father's friends were in the RCMP, all we ever talked about was police work. I guess it was natural for me to want to stay in that circle. It made me feel closer to Dad, too."

"So, you became a Mountie so you had some ready made friends?"

I've never looked at it like that before, but he's right. It was simply easier to slide into the familiar world than to try something new. I nod, and he asks me another question. "So, what do you think of me? Am I a born cop, or what?"

"Of course, Ray, you are undoubtedly the finest police officer I've ever worked with." He is ridiculously pleased at the compliment and grins hugely.

"That hard to say, Fraser?" Another private joke.

"Not in the least, Ray."

Another thought occurs to him.

"So, if I wasn't a cop, say I retired or something, would you be mad at me?"

I really don't know where this conversation is going, but I try and answer as best I could. "I suppose it would depend on what you ended up doing, and how happy you were. I wouldn't be angry with you, just disappointed if I thought your considerable talents were being wasted."

He thinks for a bit, and I'm struggling to see what the point of all this is. Then he speaks again.

"Maggie's written a couple of times, did you know?"

"I hoped she had. I told her you were hurt."

"Actually, she's written more than a couple of times. You know what I'm saying, Fraser?"

I feel I am being asked for my approval, which I have no right to give or withhold. I want him to know exactly how I feel. "Ray, if you are asking if I know Maggie feels warmly towards you, yes I did know that. I don't know how you feel about her. I don't want either of you to get hurt, but I also want you to be happy, both of you, and if you're asking for my blessing, then you have it with my whole heart. " His grin is enormous.

"Really, Fraser? You cool about her and me? Because, you know, I think it could be serious this time."

"I am absolutely certain that I am quite 'cool' about you two - more than cool, I'm really very happy." The thought of Ray being bound to me by family, and Maggie to me through Ray is enough to make my head whirl with delight, but I don't know where exactly their relationship stands, and I don't want to ruin a good thing by pushing. Still, he's agitated, and now he does actually stand up and start walking around. I know from past experience that if I wait, he'll tell me, so I watch him pace. I am pleased he doesn't need the stick to do this, but otherwise, he's beginning to worry me slightly.

Finally, he's sorted out what he wants to say. "Fraser..."

"Yes, Ray," I reply, waiting patiently.

"I'm going to Canada."

I can't quite see why this should need all this preliminary blithering. "Well, of course you are, Ray. We discussed this before, when your next vacation comes up..."

"No, you don't get it. I'm going up there to live." This is so completely unexpected  that I wonder if my excellent hearing has gone haywire, due no doubt to stress. He gives me a grin. "Close your mouth, Fraser, it's unattractive sitting there with it hanging open like that." What? Oh, yes. I close my mouth, but I'm still shocked. I quickly sort out in my mind why he's announced this now, and a suspicion grows.

"Ray, I can't allow you to throw away your career just because I've been transferred to Ottawa..."

The grin gets bigger. "It's not just you, dummy, it's Maggie too."

"Oh. I hadn't realised things were so advanced between you."

"They're not." Now I am totally bewildered. He takes pity on me and comes and sits at the table again. "Look, Fraser, I'm hoping things will maybe take off between me and your sister, sure, and I think she really likes me. But I want to go back for me, to feel good, to explore the wilderness - all the things I can't do in Chicago. And I figure, you being up there is a bonus."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Ray, this is mad. What about your job?"

"Stuff the job."

"Look, I know you're frustrated at the moment, being on light duties, but once you get back into the full swing, with a new partner, you'll feel quite differently."

"Nope, don't think so. This isn't some temporary snit, you know. Give me credit. I've had three months to think it over."

"So this is about you being injured."

His face gets serious. "No, this is about me not being killed. I told you, when I see that scar, it's telling me to hurry up, suck the juice out of life while I still can. The next time I get shot, or beat up, I might not make it, and I'll never have had my adventure, never tried something new. All I know is I don't want to die because some punk decides he don't like my face, or another lunatic decides he don't care who he kills when he takes himself down. And I'm not gonna be like my old man, sticking a job he hated until he retired, then sitting in a trailer home until he drops dead, for god's sake. I'm nearly forty, Fraser. There's more to life, and I want to see it before I get too old, or too crippled, to try. "

All of what he's saying makes sense, and I envy him his ability to change course and seize a chance of happiness - with Maggie, with the wilderness.

"And what about you, Fraser, you want to stay behind a desk all your life?"

"No," I say forcefully. "I do not," and he can see the frustration boiling on my face.

"So, why dont you drop the Mountie gig and come with me?" Now I fear I really have gone mad - there is no way he could be reading my thoughts.

"Mouth, Fraser?" Oh. Yes.

"So, why not?" He looks at me intently, and I cannot think of a single good reason not to say yes to him, other than my sense of honour and duty. But to what? The RCMP hasn't exactly welcomed my eccentric methods or my talents with open arms, and has been content to let me waste what skills I have at the Consulate. I can't say they've been overly pleased most of the time, no matter what successes I have had with the American law enforcement agencies. The only thing they've offered me is more desk work in Canada, and I am now completely certain that if I continue to do that, I will die.

"Tell me more about what you want to do, Ray," and his smile looks set to crack his face in two.

 

* * *

So we jaw all morning. I tell him what I've heard about work up there, and he tells me about immigration. We discuss the practicalities, what we could do together, what would happen if Maggie and I did get hitched. Fraser's got a lot of money saved, which figures, since he didn't pay rent for two years, and he doesn't spend it on wine, women or song neither - he doesn't even own a CD player. I got a bit packed away too, so's it's not like we'd starve. At one point I suggest he could run a store up in one them godforsaken towns up north, and I think he thought that didn't sound too bad, as a back up plan. Can you see Fraser, running a general store and post office? He'd have every little old lady in the place eatin' out of his hand in seconds, and probably solve every crime that 'd been committed in the last twenty years. I think it could actually be good for him, being in a small place like that - hell, he's treated Chicago like a small town, it'd be fun watching him treat some two horse village like the Windy City.

It's a big step, and I didn't expect him to make his mind up on the spot. Surprises me how the RCMP didn't even seem to come into it - he must've been well ticked off by the way he's been treated. We make lunch, and I give it a rest, thinking he needs time to go over everything. He's working hard at it, and I can practically see the gears spinning in that head of his. After we eat, we wander out on the porch. It's another nice day, cold but bright, and I'm thinking maybe we should try a walk. I look at him, and he's got a worried frown on his face. I think, no harm in asking again.

"Come with me, Ben. You'll regret it if you don't," deliberately using his first name to make him see I mean it, hoping he'll finally make the decision to come. What I don't expect is for him to whip around as if I've hit him,  his face to go white as a sheet and for him to sway like he's about to faint. Dammit, he _is_ going to faint. I catch him around the waist, and he drops like a sack of potatoes. Shit, shit, shit. What's the hell happened? By the time I get him flat, holding his head, he's already coming too. I take his face in my hand and shake it. "Fraser! Fraser, you OK? Wake up, godammit!" His eyes open up, he's still deathly white, and he grips my wrist like he's afraid I'm going to run away. I help him sit up. "Fraser, you all right?" His eyes are scared looking. What did I say? I give him a little shake. "Fraser, come on, dammit, are you OK?"

"Ray, I'm sorry." His voice is distant, sad.

"Now what'cha sorry for, Fraser? You just fainted." I help him sit up against the porch wall, and go inside for a glass of water. When I come back, he's more alert, but he's still got a faraway look in his eyes. He takes the water from me, and I make him drink some. When he's done, he says, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Fraser. You want to tell me what's going on?"

"I'm sorry, Ray."

"Stop saying that, Fraser, you're giving me piles. Just tell me what I said that was so horrible you had to pass out on me like that."

"It's stupid really, its just what you said reminded me of something someone else once said, and I was a bit shocked, that's all. I'm.... I didn't mean to frighten you."

"So who was it? Vecchio? Your dad? Who?"

"Victoria." And that gives me a chill. Fraser told me about that bitch while we was up north. I knew a bit from his file, but he filled me in on the rest, or so I thought.

"And she said something about you going with her, right? Why is that so bad - I mean you didn't go with her, did you?" The expression on his face really scares me now. It's not the frozen Mountie look, like when he's pissed off with me - it's just totally empty, like he died and just got the news. I crouch down next him, trying to ignore the pain in my back and legs.

"Just tell me, Fraser, you can't shock me, and I won't judge you."

That makes him mist up - this has got to be bad, I think. Hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to open up. His voice is just empty. "I was going to go with her - she called to me from the train, used those words you said, and I was going to go. Leave everything and everyone for her, let Ray Vecchio lose his house and his job. That's when he shot me - I was nearly on the train, she had hold of me, and Ray fired, so she let me fall. He was aiming at her, it was an accident. But I was going to go, if he hadn't shot me."

Holy shit. I never thought that would be the story. It knocks the wind right out of my sails, and while I'm looking at him, trying to find the right way to say, I don't care, I understand, he gets up and walks away. I'm still struggling up, and calling to him, but he's striding away.

"Fraser!" I yell, and he turns and looks at me.

"I can't do this Ray, I'm so sorry. I can't go with you," and then he's off. No chance of me catching him - he walks faster than I can run at the moment. I watch him head out of sight, then I have a thought, and open the cabin door, and let Dief out. I tell him to go after Fraser, and he bounds off. I go back inside, and wait for him to come back.

 

* * *

I can see the problem, I really can. It's obvious - if you're Fraser. He's been brought up to believe duty and honour are the most important things in the world, and the one time he lets go of that, he gets shot in the back by his best friend. Kind of reinforces the lesson, if you know what I mean. I got to get him to understand that duty and honour can include being nice to yourself, and that there's nothing wrong with seizing some happiness while you can. I think I know why he's never had a girlfriend the whole time I've known him - every time he gets tempted, he must get that whole honour guilt trip flag waving in front of his eyes, until he can't see the girl for the fear of what might happens if he just lets himself go for once. And I thought I was fucked up about Stella.

It's getting late, and I start thinking about packing up. We'll have to drive back tonight. Maybe the trip up here wasn't such a good idea after all. I need coffee, to get myself going. I'm just in the kitchen, filling the kettle, when the door opens. Fraser's back with Dief. I came out and face him in the living room, can't read his expression. I want to try and get my say in first, have to try and make him see what he's giving up. "Fraser..."

"No, Ray, please, it's...."

"Shut up, Fraser, let me talk." He gives up and sits down, but I stay standing. I hold up a hand and count off fingers.

"Number one. I'm not Victoria. I'm not some psycho bitch who wants to screw you and then screw you over good. I'm your best friend. You've known me for three years, and I've never shot you or run out on you, and I don't plan to, ever. Number two. You leaving isn't gonna lose anyone their house, or their reputation. No one gets hurt. It's a win-win situation. All you got to lose by staying is the chance to get to know your sister better, to be with me,  and to make some new friends, and have some great times while you're doin' it. Number three. The RCMP has crapped on you from a great height, and you owe them nothin' - _nothing,_ you hear? You done your duty, like a good boy, and now you can go with a clear conscience. Number four. You in a desk job in Ottawa is a waste of a good man. Now did I miss anything out?"

He shakes his head. "You're right on every count, Ray. I just can't do it - I can't be spontaneous like you. When I try, someone always gets hurt, and I don't want that to be you. These things - Victoria, being a Mountie - they've been part of me for a long time, and I can't let them go easily. Perhaps not at all."

Something he says gives me an idea. I pick up my coat and my stick. "Hang on there, Fraser, I got to go get something."

 

* * *

Ray dives out the front door of the cabin, and I wonder what fresh surprise he has in store. I don't think I can take many more. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I wander out to the porch. He's looking around, picking up things, rocks or stones, and putting them into the pockets of his coat. He sees me on the porch. "Come on, Fraser." I have no idea what he's up to, but I get my coat from inside and go to join him. He wants me to take the path down to the lake, so we walk the short distance in silence, down to the water's edge. The sun will be down in half an hour, and the air is definitely colder. Makes me homesick, and I wish I could just do as he wants and throw everything in and go home - home home, not Ottawa, that's somewhere I've never lived. Ray is piling his little hoard onto a log - no, now he's lining them up. They're just pebbles, nothing particular about them, but the way he's carefully placing them is quite ritualistic. Perhaps this is some custom he and his father had. Then he pick one of the stones up and gives it to me. I know I look puzzled, because I am.

"Fraser, this is Victoria. I want you to take this, her, and throw her away as far as you can."

I see what he's getting at. I look at the stone, and think perhaps it being a representation of her is not so far-fetched. It is hard, cold, and has a sharp edge, but it is also beautiful. And if I'm not careful where I throw it, I could kill someone. Ray is looking at me, unsure of what I intend to do. I answer his questioning look by taking the Victoria stone between my fingers and throwing it as far as I can into the lake. By God, I do actually feel something has gone. I give him a grin, and he smiles in relief. "What's the next one?" I ask.

He picks up another and hands it to me. "Guilty crap about me being hurt?" I nod - this one really has to go. It flies away, even further than the first. I wait for him to hand me another. "RCMP?"

"Uh..."

I haven't made my mind up on that. He understands. "Just hang onto that one for a bit, Fraser." I put the RCMP stone in my pocket, and he selects another. "Desk job in Ottawa?" That one I practically snatch from him and fling it as far and fast and I can, and he laughs. This is a good idea, from a good man, and I suddenly realise that all my foolish fears and worries are misplaced. Ray would never let me fall. I go to the log, and carefully choose two of the best pebbles, and stand in front of him, hands outstretched, one in each palm. Now he looks puzzled.

"What are these ones, Fraser?"

"Things which I have to give away." I show him the right one. "Trust." I show him the left. "Friendship." He goes very still. He's fearful of what I'm going to do, that I will hurt him. I take his right hand with mine, curl out his fingers, and place the trust stone in them.

"This is my trust, Ray. I give it to you." A smile begins, and his eyes sparkle. I take his left hand and his fingers close over mine as I put the friendship stone in it.

"This is my friendship, Ray. You have it, you will have it forever. And I _will_ come with you to Canada."

There is pure joy on my friend's face, and my own is a mirror of his. This time, I hug him, the first time I ever have, and wonder why I have not done so before. He's pounding my back with delight and I am amazed at what a precious, beautiful thing it is, to be the cause of so much happiness. For the first time in my life I feel truly free, truly at peace.

 

* * *

Four months later, I'm pulling up to the consulate in the new Jeep Fraser and me have bought together, feeling a bit like a yuppy twit. Not a real car for the city, but that's all right, I'm not going to be in the city much longer. Fraser refused the transfer, we firmed up our plans with Maggie, and told Buck Frobisher we was coming back. We decided to wait until I was 100% fit again, let me have Christmas with my family, and then for the weather to improve a little before we left. I gave the GTO to my brother, and my turtle to my Mum. She's moving back to be with my brother - he needs the baby sitting, and I made it clear I don't. I'm still kind of mad about what she did to Fraser, but since things have turned out the way they have, I guess I can forgive her. Eventually. I quit the force, didn't want no strings holding me here. Fraser decided he didn't have resign from the RCMP completely - he's taking a year's unpaid leave, and he'll look for a field posting close to Maggie, and me, I hope. And if one don't come up, well, then we have other options. The main thing is, he can see there _are_ other options now.

He's coming out of the consulate now, two big packs on his shoulder and in his hand. He travels light - this is all the stuff he owns in the world (except for Thatcher's sword - he's posted that to Maggie for safe keeping.) He throws the packs in the back, and climbs aboard. "All done?" He nods. "And we pick up Dief on the other side of the border, right?"

"Yup." I grin. Fraser's in Canadian mode again, and somehow I think we've seen the last of dress serge wearing, formal till your brain explodes Mr Mountie.

"So, you ready to blow this joint?"

"It's already blown, so far as I'm concerned." I start her up, and we head off. I feel like a kid, waiting to go on his first big vacation, scared, excited. I know this is gonna be great. I got two bits of rock in my shirt pocket which tells me it is.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


End file.
